LIBRARY  OF  PRINCETON 

AU6  23  1999 

_ _ l 

THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


BX  8333  . Q3  H4  1923 
Quayle,  William  A.  1860- 
1925. 

The  healing  shadow 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


https://archive.org/details/healingshadowOOquay 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  BISHOP  QUAYLE 

BOOKS  AS  A  DELIGHT 
THE  THRONE  OF  GRACE 
BESIDE  LAKE  BEAUTIFUL 
POEMS 

THE  CLIMB  TO  GOD 

LAYMEN  IN  ACTION 

THE  SONG  OF  SONGS 

THE  PASTOR-PREACHER 

GOD’S  CALENDAR 

IN  GOD’S  OUT-OF-DOORS 

THE  BLESSED  LIFE 

ETERNITY  IN  THE  HEART 

A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

THE  POET’S  POET  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

RECOVERED  YESTERDAYS  IN  LITERATURE 

THE  DYNAMITE  OF  GOD 

THE  UNCOMMON  COMMONPLACE 

WITH  EARTH  AND  SKY 

A  BOOK  OF  CLOUDS 


THE  HEALING 
SHADOW 

By 

WILLIAM  A.  QUAYLE 


LIBRARY  OF  PRINCETON 

..Ml  . ....  m...  in .  .1. rnwmemmmtmmm 

AUG  23  B» 

THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


THE  ABINGDON  PRESS 


NEW  YORK 


CINCINNATI 


Copyright,  1923,  by 

WILLIAM  A.  QUAYLE 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


First  Edition  Printed  April,  1923 
Reprinted  October,  1923;  February,  1926 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I.  The  Healing  Shadow .  7 

II.  The  Impenitent  Christ .  23 

III.  God’s  Character .  43 

IV.  Mystery  a  Credential  of  Christianity  ....  53 

V.  Where  is  Zebedee? .  77 

VI.  The  City  and  Jesus  Christ .  93 

VII.  Headed  Into  Spring .  107 

VIII.  God’s  Own  Notion  of  Divine  Providence  .  .  115 

IX.  The  Hushed  Prophets .  131 

X.  A  Parable .  147 

XI.  The  Universal  Builder .  161 

XU.  The  Gardener .  181 

XIII.  God’s  Fullness .  201 

XIV.  Our  Conversation  Is  in  Heaven . 215 

XV.  The  Friend  of  the  Bruised  Reed . 223 

XVI.  The  Comforter .  241 

XVII.  “The  Foolishness  of  God” . 261 

XVIII.  A  Lord’s  Day  Pastoral .  281 


PRAYER 


Lord,  we  make  our  prayer  to  thee,  and  truly  it  is  as 
a  homecoming  to  our  hearts.  More  and  more  does  the 
realization  of  the  blessedness  of  prayer  come  to  us  with 
measureless  comfort  and  very  great  peace.  We  have  been 
from  home  and  have  had  heart  hunger  for  our  mother  and 
our  father,  and  our  father  and  our  mother.  Sometimes 
father  would  be  first  to  come  to  our  hearts,  and  at  other 
times  our  mother  was  first  in  our  love;  but  they  two  and 
all  the  housings  of  our  lives  for  blessed  years  came  over 
us  with  a  warmth  and  yearning  like  the  breath  across  a 
harvest  field  and  we  wanted,  so  to  get  home,  just  to  get  home. 
And  when  we  came,  O  the  welcome  of  it,  and  the  hearten¬ 
ing,  and  how  all  our  hungerings  were  forgot  in  the  welcome 
and  the  kiss  and  the  dear  eyes  looking  love  on  us  and  through 
us.  And  even  so  as  the  days  wend  their  way  into  the  years 
does  our  coming  to  thyself  in  prayer  come  to  be  a  home¬ 
coming  to  our  hearts.  We  have  no  father  now,  on  earth, 

nor  any  mother.  They  have  gone  with  smiling  out  into 
the  heavenly  land,  and  their  wistful  “Meet  me  there”  still 
sings  with  sobbings  in  our  memories,  and  we  needs  must 

have  some  other  heart  to  which  to  come,  and  that  heart 

and  that  home  is  thyself,  O  Lord  God  our  Father.  Father 
and  Mother  art  thou  to  us,  and  in  thee  our  wanderings  find 
their  feet  on  the  home  paths  again  and  our  eyes  rest  in  end 
of  quest  on  the  dear  home  faces.  Heavenly  Master,  thy 
name  is  comfort  to  us  and  thy  heart  is  our  true  home. 

We  offer  thee  our  prayer  not  as  being  our  bounden  duty, 
as  in  truth  it  surely  is,  but  as  being  our  home  feeling  and 
home  finding.  We  want  thee,  want  to  be  near  thee,  want 
to  climb  as  we  did  when  children,  sleepy  and  tired,  up  into 
dear  arms,  which  were  never  so  weary  they  were  loath  to 
receive  us.  So  we  would  climb  up  into  the  arms  of  our 
God.  That  is  prayer.  We  are  not  coming  as  a  religious 
obligation  but  as  a  filial  return.  We  want  thee,  we  are 
homesick  for  thee.  All  we  are  hastes  out  thy  way,  and  we 
make  our  prayer. 

Thou  wilt  not  be  critical.  We  feel  sure  of  the  welcome  of 
our  prayer.  Thou  art  our  Father,  and  fathers  are  not 
critical.  They  love  the  voices  of  their  beloved  and  thou 
lovest  our  voices.  We  are  thy  beloved.  Halleluiah!  Amen. 


6 


I 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 

“That  at  least  the  shadow  of  Peter  passing  by  might 
overshadow  some  of  them.” — Acts  5.  15. 

It  was  bright  sunlight  in  Jerusalem.  Not 
a  cloud  flecked  the  sky.  The  cobalt  dome  of 
the  heavens  lifted  high  and  glorious  with  not 
even  a  banner  of  cirrus  cloud  floating  very  high 
and  far.  The  poetry  of  the  book  of  God  is 
ubiquitous.  Go  where  you  may  poetry  will 
blossom  out  springwise  at  your  feet.  It  is  so 
here.  Why  should  a  preacher  say  it  was  sun¬ 
shiny  in  Jerusalem  when  no  word  is  spoken  in 
the  sacred  text  of  cloudlessness  of  sky  or  radiancy 
of  sunlight?  The  answer  lies  not  in  accusing  the 
preacher  of  romancing,  nor  yet  in  looking  at  the 
sky,  but  in  looking  at  the  ground.  That  is  essen¬ 
tial  poetry  always  that  not  where  we  should  have 
thought  to  see  things  we  behold  them  but  in 
unexpected  places.  To  find  things  where  they 
were  to  be  looked  for  is  prose;  to  find  things 
where  they  were  not  to  be  looked  for  is  poetry. 
To  look  for  the  sky  where  the  sky  is  is  one  thing. 
To  look  and  see  the  sky  where  it  is  not  is  another 
thing.  I  shall  see  the  sky  above  me  azure  and 

heavenly,  like  fair  angels  garmented  in  blue  and 

7 


8 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


flying  in  limitless  ecstasy  and  multitude.  The  sky 
is  always  there.  The  sun  is  in  its  heavens  as  God 
is  in  his.  Above  us  are  the  crystal  skies  and  the 
blazing  sun.  But  to  walk  along  muddy  ways  with 
the  slop  and  slush  of  oozing  mud  at  every  step, 
watching  only  for  the  passing  of  the  feet  with  as 
little  mud  as  may  be,  and  then  and  there  to  see  a 
whole  heaven  blue  and  sweet  beneath  your  feet  in 
a  mud-puddle— that  is  in  the  nature  of  highest 
poetry,  the  unanticipated  poetry  of  Him  who 
waketh  us  from  slumber  with  the  sunrise  kiss. 

Our  heads  are  bowed.  We  are  walking  on  the 
crowded  streets  of  not  overclean  Jerusalem.  We 
watch  to  keep  from  stumbling,  we  have  no  heed 
for  the  sun.  The  way  is  lit,  and  that  we  take  for 
granted — as  we  do  most  mercies.  And  thus,  as 
with  bowed  heads  and  eyes  attent  on  the  ground 
only,  unexpectant  of  the  sky,  a  shadow  moves 
along  the  ground.  Poetry.  Where  a  shadow  falls 
there  must  be  sunshine.  It  is  a  sunny  day  in 
Jerusalem  because  the  crowd  is  attent  to  catch  the 
shadow  of  Peter  passing  by.  So  say  once  more, 
preacher,  with  a  sunrise  in  your  voice,  “It  was 
bright  sunlight  in  Jerusalem  and  not  a  cloud 
flecked  the  sky.”  We  mark  Peter’s  shadow  mov¬ 
ing  on  the  ground  and  know  the  sun  is  moving 
majestic  in  the  sky. 

Now  this  Brother  Peter,  the  Reverend  Peter 
Jonas,  sometime  minister  in  Jerusalem  and  in 
the  circuit  round  about,  is  a  peculiarly  useful 
brother:  not  so  much  by  what  he  was  as  by  what 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


9 


he  was  not.  Not  to  speak  slightingly  of  him  or 
discourteously  of  him,  we  may  and  must  in 
accuracy  say  that  he  was  so  many  things  he 
should  not  have  been  as  to  strike  us  as  bizarre. 
He  is  frankly  humorous,  not  by  possessing  humor 
but  by  its  absence.  He  was  impertinent,  not 
meaning  it  but  not  knowing  it.  He,  to  use  the 
recorded  phrase  which  is  quite  unforgetable  “Then 
Peter  took  him  [Jesusl  and  began  to  rebuke 
him,”  contradicted  Jesus  to  his  face.  He  was 
thick-skinned  which  is  one  of  the  hardest  known 
diseases  to  cure.  His  lack  of  humor  made  him 
ineligible  to  fine  discriminations  or  to  finesse.  He 
blundered  in,  and  sometimes  out,  but  he  always 
blundered.  Sometimes  he  blundered  on  great 
truths  and  high  visions.  He  talked  when  he  was 
asleep  and  always  while  he  was  awake,  and  one 
who  never  ceases  talking  must  sometimes  say  a 
wise  thing.  No  sublimity  awed  him.  In  the 
presence  of  transfiguration  glory,  while  he  was 
sleepy  as  a  nested  bird,  he  blunders  into  speech. 
He  rushed  into  the  tomb  of  God  when  the  finer 
John  stayed  without  looking  and  believing,  was 
filled  with  unutterable  joy. 

This  minister  will  hardly  stay  long  on  any 
circuit,  so  lacking  is  he  in  tact,  and  with  his 
fisherman’s  manners  on  him  like  the  fish  scales 
on  his  coat.  Besides,  he  is  much  given  to  back¬ 
sliding.  He  has  been  known  to  lie  and  curse  and 
deny  acquaintance  with  his  Master,  and  has  been 
seen  to  “follow  him  afar  off.”  Mark  the  tears 


10 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


in  those  stumbling  words,  for  they  drip  like  rain 
on  very  rainy  days.  Really,  the  best  thing  I 
know  to  say  of  the  Reverend  Peter  Jonas,  of 
Jerusalem  Circuit,  is  that  his  mother-in-law  lived 
with  him.  Yet  it  may  be  she  had  no  place  else 
to  live.  Mothers-in-law  cannot  always  be  choosy 
about  their  sons-in-law.  There  he  is  painted  with 
Rembrandt  flame  of  color  and  rough  accuracy, 
and  there  he  stays.  He  cannot  quit  him  of  him¬ 
self,  and  we  cannot  be  quit  of  him.  Be  sure 
he  will  be  around  when  lie  is  not  wanted.  He 
would  do  as  the  preacher  I  knew  of  when  a  parish¬ 
ioner  who  was  dying  and  desired  to  die  in  peace 
gave  word  to  lock  the  front  door  when  her  min¬ 
ister  was  seen  approaching.  Her  wishes  were 
obeyed.  He  came  and  rang  and  rang  and  rang. 
The  door  was  inhospitable,  and  the  sick  woman 
lay  on  her  dying  pillow  with  a  suggestion  of 
humor  on  her  white  face  and  undisguised  content 
— when,  lo!  at  her  chamber  door  stood  the  parson. 
He  had  gone  round  to  the  back  door,  entered, 
ascended  the  stair,  and  now  stood  ready  to  attend 
to  his  pastoral  duty.  It  must  have  been  the 
Reverend  Peter  Jonas. 

Frankly,  what  can  be  done  with  this  brother 
or  for  him?  Clearly,  nothing.  He  is  beyond 
repair.  He  will  blunder  along  until  his  brethren 
will,  in  defense  of  the  gospel,  unfrock  him.  So 
with  Brother  Peter  Jonas? 

Wait.  Hearten  ye,  brothers.  There  is  the 
smell  of  spring  in  the  wind  and  a  blur  of  spring 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


11 


on  the  sky.  Jesus  of  Nazareth  draweth  near. 
See  the  crowd,  if  perad venture  “the  shadow 
of  Peter  passing  by  might  overshadow  some  of 
them.”  Hope  for  the  world  of  crude,  misshapen 
souls,  Peter’s  shadow  has  healing. 

What  a  man  was  is  of  scant  concern  with 
Christ.  He  has  a  cure  for  sin.  To  be  accurate, 
he  has  the  only  cure  for  sin.  He  is  master  of  the 
art  of  making  men  over.  That  is  the  thing  the 
whole  earth  needs;  and,  blessed  be  the  Blessed 
Christ,  that  is  what  the  whole  earth  may  have. 
We  are  not  left  the  prey  of  our  subconscious 
selves.  We  are  not  owned  by  the  thing  or  things 
we  were.  We  are  out  in  the  open  with  God,  who 
makes  men  over.  He  has  arisen  “with  healing 
in  his  wings.”  I  hear  the  swift  and  sweet  ap¬ 
proach  of  those  wings  celestial.  The  touch  of 
the  tip  of  the  wing  can  bring  us  peace  and  the 
passing  caress  of  that  wing  can  balm  us  for  ten 
thousand  years.  We  are  out  in  the  open.  We  are 
not  “cabined,  cribbed,  confined,”  as  Shakespeare 
was.  We  are  out  in  the  open  with  God.  Shall 
we  listen  to  the  jargon  of  heredities  and  environ¬ 
ments  and  smell  the  sulphur  smoke  of  them,  or 
hearken  to  the  coming  feet  of  God,  who  says, 
“He  shall  be  called  Jesus,  for  he  shall  save  his 
people  from  their  sins”?  “From  their  sins”  is 
the  greatest  word  of  enfranchisement  this  listen¬ 
ing  world  has  ever  heard.  It  is  the  last  word  in 
redemption.  I  need  no  more.  Not  how  we  were 
is  the  controlling  consideration,  but  how  we  may 


12 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


be.  God  has  hold  of  us.  We  are  in  the  hands 
of  Him  of  whom  it  is  plainly  said,  “He  maketh  all 
things  new.”  A  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth 
are  in  his  schedule  of  performances;  but,  more 
alluring  and  more  necessary  to  us  beleaguered 
mortals,  he  makes  the  soul  over.  He  makes  a 
new  soul  out  of  the  old  soul.  Years  now  have  I 
been  trying  in  a  weakling’s  way  to  utter  the  high 
things  God  has  said  to  my  heart,  and,  baffled  like 
a  mountain  trying  to  climb  the  sky,  I  have  been 
stumbling  still  toward  this  zenith  of  the  new  birth. 
There  is  a  new  theology  and  an  old  theology  and 
a  whole  theology  and  the  only  theology.  Having 
this,  we  need  no  more.  We  need  not  pout  on 
the  porches  of  discontent  nor  turn  anarchists 
with  things.  We  are  not  doomed.  Our  ancestors 
are  not  so  baleful  as  we  thought  them.  They 
wounded  us  but  did  not  slay  us.  We  appeal  from 
our  earthly  father  to  “Our  Father  which  art  in 
heaven.”  We  espouse  a  new  paternity.  We 
heave  no  sigh,  we  do  not  mope,  we  do  not  make 
tragic  display  of  our  doomful  yesterdays  and  our 
smirched  forebears.  Nay,  we  run  to  Our  Saviour. 
We  have  absolution  at  his  cross  and  cleansing  in 
his  blood.  He  can  make  us  every  whit  whole. 
Consider  Peter’s  shadow  and  sweep  your  soul’s 
gloomy  sky  free  of  clouds.  If  Peter,  coarse  and 
common,  can  become  a  healing  shadow,  what 
may  not  happen  for  any  of  us?  Spring  is  in  the 
wind. 

Hear  the  sorrowing  voice  of  Jesus  on  the 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


13 


Supper  night  admonishing,  “Simon,  Simon,  be¬ 
hold,  Satan  hath  desired  to  have  you,  that  he 
may  sift  you  as  wheat:  but  I  have  prayed  for 
thee,  that  thy  faith  fail  not:  and  when  thou  art 
converted,  strengthen  thy  brethren.”  And,  lo! 
here  he  has  been  converted,  and  he  is  strength¬ 
ening  the  brethren.  His  shadow  has  become  a 
good  physician.  Hope  for  us  all.  By  the  grace 
of  God  a  man  may  become  other  than  he  was. 
Peter  is  the  proof.  A  man  may  become  so  filled 
with  God  as  that  himself  in  its  impoverishment 
and  meanness  may  be  thrust  out,  and  himself  in 
his  enrichment  and  robust  manhood  may  become 
dynamical  as  the  sun.  Peter  is  the  living  instance. 
It  is  possible  to  have  enough  religion  to  overflow 
one’s  character.  We  have  not  religion  in  its  total¬ 
ity  until  our  shadows  become  converted.  Here  is 
a  converted  Peter  and  a  converted  shadow  of  Peter, 
so  that  he  works  like  twin  suns,  neither  nor  both 
knowing  that  they  shine.  Shining  is  not  in  know¬ 
ing  our  light  but  in  giving  out  light.  Peter  and 
his  shadow  have  encountered  Christ.  Truly  it  is 
sun-up,  or  may  be  noon.  Enough  of  Christ  to 
overflow  into  one’s  shadow?  Can  that  be?  It 
is.  This  is  not  theory:  this  is  theory  actualized. 
Watch  Peter’s  shadow — bringing  healing. 

Peter  is  preaching  Christ.  He  is  as  uncon¬ 
scious  of  himself  as  a  flower.  He  is  intent.  His 
blood  is  hot  as  summer  noon.  He  who  denied 
Jesus  may  preach  him.  “Tell  my  disciples — 
and  Peter”  were  the  words  which  wrought  havoc 


14 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


with  his  heart  but  wrought  glory  in  his  life. 
Though  he  was  counted  out  by  himself  he  is 
counted  in  by  Christ;  and  he  fingers  at  the  tattered 
dog’s-eared  copy  of  the  book  of  his  own  life  and 
wonders,  wonders  if  the  tender  and  mighty  Christ 
can  take  that  thumb-worn  book  and  change  it 
into  a  volume  which  need  not  be  utterly  ashamed. 
And  he  can  do  no  other  than  proclaim  a  Christ 
like  that.  Who  could?  To  know  the  Christ 
and  what  he  has  in  heart  to  do,  and  has  taken 
in  hand  to  do,  for  everyone  who  will  accept  his 
help  will  make  evangelists  of  us  all  and  make  us 
golden-throated  preachers  of  the  cross  of  Christ 
and  the  Christ  of  the  cross.  We  shall  all  be 
swept  off  our  feet  by  the  amazement  of  the 
Christ  and  shall  rush  like  a  song  from  the  throat 
of  a  bird  in  spring  to  fill  our  circumambient  sky 
with  music.  So  Peter  preaches.  He  is  saying 
“Christ.”  He  does  not  note  the  throng.  He 
does  not  perceive,  sharp-eyed  as  he  is  by  nature, 
how  the  one  side  of  the  street  down  which  he 
walks  holds  crowded  crowds — and  they  all  sick. 
Poor  emaciates  sprawl  everywhere  on  one  side 
of  the  street.  On  the  other  are  the  hale  and  the 
strong  and  the  bright-eyed  with  health.  None 
of  this  Peter  sees.  Preaching  is  a  strange  infatu¬ 
ation.  A  man  is  as  if  in  a  dream,  a  high  and  holy 
dream,  a  very  high  and  very  holy  dream.  He 
sees  Christ.  He  is  caught  up,  raptured  away 
and  on  high.  He  sees  and  hears;  and  what  he 
sees  and  what  he  hears  he  is  hot  heart  and  burning 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Itf 

o 

lips  to  try  to  proclaim.  Preaching  is  a  radiant, 
heavenly,  apocalyptic  business.  There  is  nothing 
like  it.  It  is  solitary  as  the  angel  standing  in  the 
sun.  Peter  is  preaching  Christ,  that  Christ  with 
whom  he  companied  in  ‘The  days  of  his  flesh,” 
whose  voice  sounds  in  his  ears  night  and  day 
sweeter  than  the  sound  of  heavenly  flutes,  whose 
vast  compassion  almost  makes  him  die  as  he 
reverts  to  it  in  dreams  or  waking.  And,  hearing 
that  mellifluous  voice,  and  surged  across  and 
through  by  the  anguish  and  agony  and  authority 
of  that  brave  ministry  which  wrought  the  world’s 
redemption,  he  sweeps  along  like  a  strong  wind 
among  the  pines.  He  is  saying  and  singing  and 
singing  and  saying:  “Ho,  ye,  Christ  is  here,  the 
Mighty  Christ,  the  Almighty  Christ,  the  Undis¬ 
mayed  Christ,  the  Undef eatable  Christ,  every¬ 
body’s  Christ,  my  Christ.  Hear  ye  him,  see  ye 
him,  take  ye  him.  Ho,  every  one  that  thirsteth, 
come  unto  him  and  drink,  this  well  of  Water 
springing  up  unto  everlasting  Life!”  And  before 
him  his  shadow-side  of  the  street  is  packed 
with  the  invalid  crowds,  babes  from  whose  cheeks 
all  color  has  gone,  babes  from  whose  cheeks  the 
burn  of  fever  eats  like  live  coals  and  cannot 
be  put  out  by  any  medicine  they  know,  and 
mothers  leaning  and  soothing  with  kisses  and 
with  tears;  but  tears  cannot  quench  the  fever- 
fires,  and  kisses  cannot  bring  color  to  the  pallid 
baby  cheeks;  and  their  mothers  rock  them  in 
their  arms  and  croon  brokenly  over  them  mother- 


16 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


wise;  and  lads  borne  of  their  fathers,  pathetically 
quiet,  and  unboy  like — no  hurrah  nor  romp,  just 
acquiescent, motionless  silence;  and  stricken  women 
carried  by  husbands  and  sons  and  accompanied 
by  weeping  daughters;  and  little  girls  with  the 
wistful  motherhood  foreshadowed  in  them,  carry¬ 
ing  limp  dolls  on  their  limp,  invalid  arms;  and  old 
men  hobbling  to  catch  a  touch  of  a  passing 
shadow;  and  strong  men  once  and  in  their  prime, 
but  now  nipped  with  a  bitter  frost  and  like  to 
die — there  they  sprawl  with  faces  turned  toward 
a  moving  shadow;  and  he  whose  the  shadow  is 
knows  not  they  are  there  or  why,  nor  sees  any 
save  Christ.  He  sees  Christ,  is  annunciative  of 
Christ,  has  no  mind  to  be  a  doctor,  has  no  thought 
that  he  could  be  a  good  physician — not  he.  That 
was  his  Master’s  business  who,  to  use  Preacher 
Peter’s  words,  “went  about  doing  good.”  And 
on  the  preacher  went,  the  more  he  preached  and 
heeded  not  the  sick  folk  nor  his  shadow. 

“Brother  Peter,  stay  thy  preaching  and  look.” 

“Interrupt  me  not.  I  cannot  stay  my  preach¬ 
ing.  Time  hastes.  Men  die.  I  die  soon,  I  must 
preach  the  Christ.” 

“But,  Brother  Peter,  see,  ahead  of  thee  are  sick 
folk  only,  but  behind  thee  are  no  sick  folk.  All 
well.  See,  Brother  Peter.” 

But  he  cannot  be  impeded  in  his  preaching  but 
moves  along  like  a  great  wind  among  the  trees 
making  music.  Yet  while  he  preaches  we  may 
look;  and  the  sight  is  hilarious.  For,  truly,  be- 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


17 


fore  him  where  the  shadow  was  to  pass  are  only 
sick  folks,  but  behind  him  where  his  shadow  has 
passed  are  no  sick  folks  at  all.  Only  the  well 
folks  throng  and  sing  and  smile  and  hug  each 
other.  Babes  white-faced  and  drawn  no  longer: 
just  well  babes  and  youths  and  maids  and  old 
women  and  old  men  and  men  in  life’s  prime 
lately  smitten  with  disease,  now  strong  and  well 
and  carrying  their  babes  in  their  arms  exultantly. 
What  healed  them?  Who  was  their  physician? 
Wot  ye  not,  they  have  encountered  the  healing 
shadow?  and,  looking  ahead,  ye  see  where  the 
moving  shadow  advances,  the  sick  vanish  as  the 
dew  and  only  well  people  stand  and  shout  and 
fill  the  air  with  music.  ’Twas  Peter’s  shadow — and 
he  knew  it  not! 

Let  us  get  no  cobwebs  on  our  brains  now  and 
think  here  is  a  demonstration  of  faith  cure.  This 
is  no  time  to  be  small  and  miss  majesty.  This 
beautiful  passage  is  not  to  affirm  some  pet  dogma 
of  some  vociferous  sectary.  This  does  not  estab¬ 
lish  faith  cure  as  a  remedy  to  the  ends  of  time 
or  Christianity  as  a  doer  away  with  doctors.  The 
doctors  may  stay  and  remedy  the  body  while 
Christianity  goes  on  doing  what  no  earthly 
physician  may  do — medicine  the  soul.  That  is 
so  large  a  business  that  Christianity  may  not 
come  down  to  doctor  bodies  and  neglect  doctor¬ 
ing  souls — a  thing  that  nobody  else  may  do. 

Let  us  be  attent  to  what  this  prose-poetry  of 
the  Book  of  God  does  mean  to  say  and  does  say. 


18 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


It  affirms  the  value  of  one’s  shadow.  The  thing 
we  do  not  note  and  only  rarely  are  aware  of 
becomes  a  pregnant  part  of  the  life  of  man. 
What  we  are  attent  in  doing  and  intent  on  doing 
we  know.  That  is  a  matter  of  the  purpose  of  the 
soul.  But  that  life  may  become  so  majestic  as 
that  we  work  double,  the  man  we  are  and  the 
man  we  know  not  that  we  are,  is  lordly  knowledge. 

Peter  knew  not  that  he  had  a  shadow.  He  was 
unaware  of  his  magnitude.  Quite  right.  That 
is  as  it  should  be.  We  have  a  modest  God  who 
hopes  to  make  us  modest  folks  and  helps  to 
make  us  so.  The  meek  inherit  a  beatitude. 
Self-awareness  is  not  among  the  characteristics 
of  largeness  anywhere  any  time.  They  who  do 
largely  must  be  engrossed  in  the  thing  they  do 
and  not  in  admiring  themselves  or  their  technique. 
Large  life  is  not  one  of  too  great  introspection, 
and  certainly  not  one  of  self -admiration.  We 
must,  so  to  say,  neglect  ourselves  to  enlarge  our¬ 
selves.  Self-consciousness  is  not  a  healthy  pos¬ 
session.  Peter  not  cognizant  of  his  shadow  is  a 
first  lesson  in  the  etiquette  of  the  soul.  Yet 
here  the  great  truth  stands  out  in  the  sun  that 
a  body’s  shadow  may  become  mighty  and  minis- 
trant. 

What  we  do  when  we  know  not  that  we  do  is 
really  the  major  ministry  of  life.  We  do  more 
things  than  we  know.  How  that  nerves  life  and 
qualifies  it!  We  all  have  shadows.  We  cannot 
help  the  shadow  nor  hinder  it.  The  sun  makes 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


19 


the  shadow  and  God  makes  the  sun.  The  moving 
figure  and  the  moving  shadow.  The  shadow  is 
voiceless;  the  figure  moving  is  eloquent?  Softly 
— are  we  sure  that  is  the  way  of  it?  Is  that  the 
complete  biography  of  life?  Hardly.  The  shadow 
may  be  the  real  figure.  Read  biographies  and 
see.  Byron’s  shadow,  still  cast  and  still  baleful, 
is  all  that  is  left  of  him.  The  Ptolemies  are  all 
shadows  and  shadows  only.  Bunyan  is  both 
figure  and  shadow  and  both  eternized  music. 
What  we  did  when  we  did  not  know  that  we 
did  becomes  the  real  vocation  of  the  soul.  There 
is  no  theatricality  in  the  shadow.  Louis  XIV’s 
figure  strutted,  always  strutted,  and  now  his 
shadow  laughs  at  the  figure  that  cast  it,  and  we, 
going  along  the  road  of  history,  see  only  the 
trivializing  shadow  mincing  along  the  road  while 
the  bystanders  or  travelers  on  that  way  jeer  at 
what  Mark  Twain  has  colorlessly  called  “Louis 
the  Putrid.” 

Whether  we  will  or  not  the  shadow  becomes 
our  real  interpreter.  For  ill  or  good  mark  the 
shadow.  We  must  put  our  shadows  to  school 
to  Christ  if  we  would  pass  into  eternal  service 
for  mankind.  Peter’s  shadow,  converted  as 
Peter  is,  goes  preaching  a  great  gospel  as  Peter 
does.  His  shadow  heals  because  Peter  heals. 
Our  shadows  cannot  outpreach  us  in  that  we  must 
teach  our  shadows.  The  shadow  stays,  lasts,  out¬ 
lasts,  but  it  is  our  shadow  and  learned  its  deeds 
from  us.  Our  shadows  go  to  school  to  ourselves 


20 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


and  we  become  responsible  for  them.  We  cannot 
evade  our  shadows  nor  disown  them.  In  this 
view  they  become  tragically  great.  They  are 
not  fantastical  but  majestical. 

So,  consider  the  shadow.  What  wre  did  when 
we  did  not  think  we  did  is  big  with  destiny.  Off 
guard,  how  were  we?  Dare  we  trust  the  report 
our  shadow  gives  of  us?  Are  we  terrified  if  our 
shadow  goes  walking  alone  and  makes  unhindered 
way  along  the  pathways  where  mankind  walks? 

And  here  we  arrive  at  the  real  democracy  of 
life.  We  are  not  equal  in  intellect  or  gifts  of 
many  orders.  We  bulk  differently.  All  history 
knows  this  and  says  it.  But  with  our  shadows 
comes  absolute  equality.  We  may  all  have  the 
healing  shadow.  We  may  all  grow  a  shadow 
which  shall  outminister  ourselves.  How  like  a 
blur  of  clustered  suns  this  is !  A  prodigious 
shadow  is  what  we  may  grow  and  leave  as  an 
inheritance  to  this  world.  I  have  seen  it  so  very 
many  times:  men  and  women  of  no  great  parts 
— as  accurate,  observing  observation  knew — be¬ 
came  so  good  and  true  and  daylit  as  that  what 
their  ability  was  no  man  reckoned.  All  took 
note  that  they  had  been  with  Jesus.  They 
exhaled  precious  spikenards.  They  walked  along 
a  lonely  road  and  made  it  a  highway  which  the 
angels  frequented.  They  had  a  look  of  some 
far,  fair  country,  and  men  became  homesick  for 
this  land  of  light.  They  did  not  need  to  speak. 
Their  shadows  were  eloquence-moving  and  tender. 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


21 


They  did  not  need  to  utter  prayer.  They  were 
a  prayer.  When  they  were  beside  us  we  prayed 
wrought  upon  by  their  presence.  They  did  not 
need  to  chide  us  for  our  lacks;  we  felt  them 
because  their  shadows  rebuked  us. 

How  good  this  is  for  God  to  make  a  plain 
path  of  absolute  equality  for  all  our  feet!  No 
large  wit,  no  wide  reading,  no  far  travel,  no 
sainted  parenthood — none  of  these  are  necessary 
in  this  new,  strange,  and  very  beautiful  democ¬ 
racy  of  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord. 

The  healing  shadow  should  bring  to  every 
heart  a  healing  beyond  words.  We  become  so 
consequential  beyond  all  limitations.  Great  days 
are  in  store  for  us.  High  things  come  flying  like 
birds  to  our  windows.  The  most  inconspicuous 
life  may  have  no  need  for  an  archangel’s  golden 
trumpet.  That  life  has  its  own  instrument  of 
music  so  that  there  are  no  longer  the  highly 
favored  and  the  little  favored;  but  only  the  elect 
of  God  may  have  shadows  that  can  write  a 
musical  score  which  the  angels  of  God  shall 
render  on  their  glorious  trumpets,  the  shadow- 
music  of  eternal  life. 


PRAYER 


How  precious  to  our  hearts  is  this  Apocalypse  of  God! 
How  radiant  our  way  is  which  we  singingly  take  with  never 
a  faltering  step.  It  is  broad  daylight  and  we  see  far.  All 
those  old  pagan  darknesses  where  wandered  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  our  race  so  long,  so  pitifully  long,  are  now  a 
shabby  memory.  Now  we  see  Thee  in  Him.  He  is  thy 
character;  and  all  those  things  that  dreamful  prophets  at 
vast  hazard  called  out  in  their  night  scarcely  crediting  their 
own  words,  we  know  are  truth  but  only  adumbrations  as 
compared  with  the  Wonder  and  the  Glory  and  the  Beauty 
and  the  Salvation  that  Thou  art. 

With  all  that  is  within  us  we  bless  thy  holy  name,  and 
worship  Christ,  who  leans  to  us,  prone  at  his  feet,  and  whis¬ 
pers,  “Ye  seeing  me  have  seen  the  Father.”  And  it  sufficeth 
us  this  hour  and  for  eternity.  Amen. 


22 


II 


THE  IMPENITENT  CHRIST 

“Which  of  you  convinceth  me  of  sin?” — John  8.  Jt6. 

This  saying  always  makes  me  afraid.  I  think 
it  is  as  terrible  as  the  resurrection,  and  I  know 
nothing  that  will  make  the  face  white  so  soon 
as  the  resurrection  morning.  And  the  reason  it 
does  is  because  it  displays  out  in  the  open  a 
terrific  power  we  did  not  know  existed.  And 
this  calm  saying  of  the  calm  Christ  to  the  effect 
that  he  is  sinless,  and  consequently  impenitent, 
makes  a  man  halt  and  grow  silent.  It  is  hard 
to  talk  about  so  mighty  a  matter  as  this;  and 
the  solitary  defense  I  offer  in  my  own  behalf 
is  that  it  is  the  solemn  service  a  preacher  is  bound 
to  render  to  talk  sometimes  when  he  would  love 
to  be  silent,  and  to  talk  oftentimes  about  things 
that  are  sky  heights  above  his  little  stature. 

Now,  this  calm  assumption  of  Jesus  that  he 
is  not  a  sinner  will  take  hold  of  the  wrists  of  any 
thoughtful  mind  and  twist  them  till  it  must 
come  to  its  knees.  We  have  known  egotists  in 
history.  There  are  not  a  few  of  them.  Their 
voices  are  easily  detected.  They  always  talk 
about  themselves.  It  is  often  not  a  large  talk, 
but  they  rejoice  in  it.  And  we  know  the  egotists 

23 


24* 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


frankly  well.  But  there  never  has  been  an  egotist 
so  colossal  out  of  all  them,  great  as  they  are,  that 
would  have  claimed  that  he  never  was  a  sinner. 
1  think  representative  egotists,  so  far  as  a 
moment’s  observation  of  them  may  be  concerned, 
may  be  named  as  follows:  Goethe,  Napoleon,  and 
Herbert  Spencer.  Those  men  seem  to  be  simply 
masters  of  art  in  the  unvaried  realm  of  egotism. 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  did  not  care  whether  there 
were  morals  or  not,  but  simply  tramped  over 
them  to  get  up  high.  Napoleon  Bonaparte  was 
careless  whether  hell  or  heaven  existed,  one  or 
both,  so  he  could  tramp  through  either  or  both, 
so  as  to  get  up  to  where  he  kinged  it  over  the 
world.  The  earth  was  Napoleon  to  him.  He 
was  the  earth  to  himself. 

Goethe  was  a  consuming  egotist.  He  never 
thought  about  morality  at  all.  He  was  very 
fine  in  his  intellectual  touch,  but  very,  very  coarse 
in  his  moral  touch.  He  couldn’t  see  blackness; 
he  was  color  blind,  this  Goethe,  to  sin,  and  to 
indecency.  He  could  do  indecent  things  and 
speak  about  them,  and  laugh,  and  think  here 
was  a  joke.  That  is  all.  The  coarse  man  never 
discriminates  between  indecencies  and  jocularities. 
Then  Herbert  Spencer — I  do  not  think  his  moral 
faculty  was  atrophied.  It  doesn’t  occur  to  me 
in  reading  Herbert  Spencer’s  autobiography  that 
he  ever  had  one.  I  don’t  say  that  he  did  not; 
but  he  gave  no  symptoms  of  it.  When  Herbert 
Spencer  is  around  I  am  always  gelid.  I  feel  like 


THE  IMPENITENT  CHRIST 


25 


I  am  near  the  north  pole.  There  is  not  a  man 
in  literature  that  to  me  puts  icebergs  into  my 
blood  so  quickly  as  Herbert  Spencer.  His  calm 
assumption  of  surprising  superiority,  his  hopeless 
incognizance  of  divine  things,  puts  me  at  zero 
in  a  second.  Now,  nobody  who  knows  these  men 
can  doubt  for  a  moment  that  their  egotism  was 
colossal  enough  for  anything.  Herbert  Spencer  is 
always  inviting  the  world  to  come  and  feel  of 
his  pulse.  I  don’t  want  to.  I  prefer  to  choose 
a  pulse.  But  he  always  said:  “Step  up  and  feel 
my  pulse.  Don’t  you  want  to  see  how  it  feels?” 
Napoleon  said:  “I  am  going  up.  Don’t  you  want 
to  see  me  go?”  Goethe  said:  “I  am  up.  Don’t 
you  want  to  see  how  high  I  am?”  Well,  they 
were  egotists  enough,  unconscionable  egotists,  but 
none  of  them  would  ever  have  said,  “I  have  had 
no  commerce  with  sin.”  They  wouldn’t  talk 
about  it  at  all.  Or,  if  they  had  been  brought  to 
face  it,  they  would  have  faltered  and  said,  “Let’s 
talk  about  other  matters.”  And  here  is  a  Man 
who  talked  of  himself,  of  his  own  volition,  up  to 
this  great  sane  matter,  and  said,  “Which  of  you 
can  say  that  I  have  sinned?” 

Well,  supposing,  then,  we  say,  for  argument’s 
assumption,  that  possibly  and  probably  Christ 
was  an  egotist.  Let  us  mark  some  egotists. 
Coleridge  was  an  egotist.  Sam  Johnson  was  an 
egotist.  Byron  was  an  egotist.  Rousseau  was  an 
egotist.  We  know  the  egotist’s  manner — some- 


26 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


times  less  passionate  and  sometimes  more,  all 
times  a  personality  who  thought  he  had  some¬ 
thing  in  himself  to  divulge  and  didn’t  mind  talk¬ 
ing  about  it,  though  it  is  nothing  much,  and  then 
keeps  reiterating  it,  and  who  makes  us  very 
weary  before  the  day  is  out,  so  much  so  that  he 
puts  us  sick  abed.  But  the  quality  of  the  egotist, 
as  we  know,  is  this — he  is  always  thinking  of  him¬ 
self  and  always  talking  about  what  he  is  thinking 
about.  Jesus  was  always  thinking  about  others 
and  himself  as  related  to  the  rehabilitation  of 
others  and  the  world.  Now,  that  is  a  matter  of 
observation  any  readers  of  the  gospel  can  certify 
to.  That  Jesus  talked  about  himself  no  one  can 
deny.  He  had  to,  because  he  was  the  center; 
and  he  had  to  fix  a  center  in  order  that  life  might 
know  how  to  revolve.  The  sun,  if  it  talked  at 
all  besides  the  talking  of  the  daylights  and  noons 
and  ruddy  skies  and  glorious  heights  of  air  filled 
with  flashing  whiteness,  would  have  to  talk  about 
itself.  Why?  Because  it  is  full  of  itself?  No; 
because  the  solar  system  is  full  of  it.  If  the  sun 
were  to  say  anything  to  this  earth  of  ours,  it 
would  have  to  say,  “Keep  close  to  me.”  Why? 
Why,  because  if  the  earth  gets  out  of  range  of 
the  sun,  it  will  rush  to  ruin.  The  sun  would  have 
to  talk  about  itself  because  itself  is  central,  sig¬ 
nificant,  and  compelling. 

Now,  Jesus  is  here  to  get  the  world  up  to  where 
the  world  should  be  and  where  the  world  must 
feel  the  tug  of  him.  O  sun,  what  doest  thou? 


THE  IMPENITENT  CHRIST 


27 


And  the  answer  of  the  sun  is,  “Getting  my  hands 
upon  my  planets.”  There  is  no  safety  in  the 
planetary  system  except  the  sun  have  his  hand 
upon  the  shoulder  of  each  and  all.  And  Jesus  is 
to  bring  life  back,  uphill,  to  God.  And  he  talks 
that.  But  I  defy  anybody  here  who  has  the 
thoughtful  mood  to  read  the  sayings  of  Jesus, 
even  a  minute,  to  mistake  what  he  hears  as  being 
the  bickerings  and  the  rasping  voices  of  an  egotist. 
Jesus  never  smoothed  his  garments  down  and 
glanced  at  himself  in  a  glass  and  looked  to  see 
how  he  looked.  He  looked  to  see  how  the  earth 
looked.  Do  you  calmly  think  that  anybody  who 
ever  heard  Jesus  talk  would  think  that  he  was 
egotist  or  egotistical?  Think  you  John  thought 
it?  Think  you  Peter  thought  it?  Think  you 
Judas  Iscariot  thought  it,  or  Mary  of  Magdala 
thought  it,  or  Martha  the  sister  of  Lazarus 
thought  it,  or  Lazarus,  coming  out  of  the  grave, 
thought  it?  Think  you  that?  Didn’t  you  know 
that  while  he  spoke  of  himself  he  spoke  of  himself 
as  related  to  us?  “I  am  the  light  of  the  world; 
therefore,  people  who  want  daylight,  here  it  is.” 
He  wasn’t  inviting  people  to  look  at  him,  but 
authentically  inviting  people  to  live  in  him;  and 
he  said  people  who  want  death  rather  than  life 
stay  far  from  me,  but  such  as  want  life  rather 
than  death  stay  near  to  me;  and  his  arguments 
were  never  for  self-gratulation,  but  his  arguments 
were  eternally  for  the  heartening  of  the  world 
and  that  dark  valleys  might  have  daylight,  and 


28 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


that  those  who  ran  might  read  when  the  book 
was  far  from  their  eyes. 

Did  you  ever  hear  Jesus  pray?  Now,  praying 
is  the  going  out  of  what  is  inmost  to  the  soul. 
That  is  praying.  Praying  always  is  the  intense¬ 
ness  of  souls  becoming  vocal.  Did  you  hear 
Jesus  praying?  And  if  you  did,  did  you  mark 
that  the  sweat  upon  his  face  was  the  sweat  for 
other  folk?  Not  for  him.  Did  you  observe  the 
longing  in  his  face,  which  was  like  anguish  set 
to  music?  Did  you  mark  that  that  longing  was 
for  other  people?  Did  you  hear  him  praying 
when  the  twelve  were  near,  and  when  Lazarus 
was  dead,  and  he  was  about  to  call  him  from  the 
silence  of  the  tomb?  If  you  heard  Jesus  praying, 
you  know  Jesus  was  not  an  egotist.  Not  a  symp¬ 
tom  of  it  is  in  him.  If  you  heard  him  talking  to 
the  woman  at  the  well  about  the  water  which  if 
the  thirsty  lip  got  a  drop  like  the  dewdrop  on  it, 
it  was  thirsty  for  more,  and  that  water  which,  if 
one  have,  there  is  no  desert  where  thirst  can 
reach  him  with  its  pang.  And  he  talked  about 
that.  When  he  said,  not  in  valley  or  by  hill, 
not  in  graveyard  or  in  throbbing  city  street,  shall 
people  worship  God,  but  only  where  people  want 
him  there  will  they  get  him,  does  that  sound 
like  egotism?  And  I  will  insist  that  no  consid¬ 
erate  reading  of  the  life  of  Jesus  and  of  his  sayings 
— to  see  them  and  hear  them  and  feel  them — 
is  possible  without  knowing  that  here  is  a  man 


THE  IMPENITENT  CHRIST 


29 


who  is  as  distant  from  egotism  as  the  remotest 
star  is  from  star.  And  this  unegotistical  Christ 
says,  4T  will  defy  you  to  show  wherein  I  ever 
sinned/’ 

Now,  my  next  consideration  is  this:  that  by 
how  people  feel  toward  sin  by  that  we  gauge 
what  sort  of  folk  they  are.  In  other  words, 
sensitiveness  to  sin  always  is  certificate  of  char¬ 
acter  to  a  soul.  People  who  are  made  out  of 
leather  say  there  is  no  sin.  People  that  are  of 
fine-fibered  quality  and  to  whom  the  soot  of  life 
is  somewhat  black  say,  ‘T  shall  die  with  my  sin.” 
Now,  anybody  who  says  it  is  only  the  worst 
folks  who  have  the  gash  of  the  sin- sword  at  them 
never  read  big  books  nor  see  big  people  nor  live 
with  big  souls.  I  will  say  that  of  them.  People 
who  suffer  from  sin  the  most  are  not  the  worst 
people;  not  at  all.  They  are  the  best  people. 
You  say  it  is  not  fair.  O  well,  that  is  according 
to  the  meaning  of  6 ‘fair.”  If  you  think  dense¬ 
ness  of  any  sort  gives  ease,  you  are  quite  right; 
but  I  would  rather  be  not  quite  so  dense  and  a 
little  more  uneasy.  Sole  leather  is  not  pricked 
by  rose  thorns,  but  I  should  rather  be  flesh  and 
feel  the  hurt  bleeding.  Leather  people  don’t 
feel  anything.  They  are  not  accessible  to  wounds. 
They  say  they  know  more  than  the  Encyclo¬ 
paedia  Britannica  and  the  rest.  The  minute  you 
get  to  know  something  you  stay  down,  out  of 
regard  to  yourself,  downstairs.  You  go  in  the 
cellar.  If  you  don’t  know  anything,  you  go  on 


30 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


the  cupola  and  speak  to  the  people  downstairs 
in  the  street:  “Here  I  am.  You  can  come  up 
some  time  and  be  as  smart  as  I  am.”  Dense 
people  don't  have  hurts.  No.  If  a  person  has 
no  sensibility,  you  could  tramp  on  his  hands  with 
swords  on  your  heels  and  he  would  never  know 
it.  People  whose  flesh  has  petrified  don’t  know 
it  if  you  tramp  on  their  hands.  And  people  who 
are  paralyzed  don’t  notice.  People  that  are 
vitalized — you  step  on  their  hands  and  the  hands 
mash  and  bleed.  Well,  then,  it  is  simply  a  ques¬ 
tion  of  how  vital  you  are  and  how  fine  you  are. 
If  you  have  no  aesthetic  impulses,  anything  would 
satisfy  you.  You  would  just  as  soon  have  the 
smear  the  scene  painters  make  for  the  theater’s 
fix-up  as  to  have  a  Rembrandt  or  a  Millais,  and 
you  would  never  be  troubled  with  daubs.  Should 
we,  rather,  be  unaesthetical,  so  as  never  to  be 
troubled  by  the  color  of  the  paints?  When  we 
are  dead  we  are  not  easy  to  hurt.  When  dead 
all  the  foul  tongues  could  wag  and  we  never 
know  it:  we  are  dead.  Rut  when  alive  you 
might  never  show  it,  yet  like  men  whipped 
with  sword  blades  you  moan  in  the  dark.  To 
tell  the  truth,  I  don’t  at  all  covet  the  callousness 
of  people  who  are  simply  thick-skinned  and  who 
don’t  know  when  they  are  threatened  by  peril 
or  menace  or  shame.  Not  at  all. 

Sensitiveness  is  the  price  you  pay  for  being 
fine.  If  you  are  not  fine,  you  won't  be  hurt. 
Rut  you  people  who  say  it  is  not  fair  that  the 


THE  IMPENITENT  CHRIST 


31 


people  who  sin  the  least  should  suffer  the  most 
from  sin  must  follow  their  logic  on  to  the  end 
and  must  know  that  by  how  much  people  are 
finest  by  so  much  are  they  hurt  the  easiest.  You 
talk  to  an  evil  man  about  the  Decalogue  and  he 
will  whisper  something  when  you  are  talking  to 
him.  He  wouldn’t  notice.  You  say  to  some 
beautiful  life,  “Thou  shalt  not  covet,”  and  you 
and  I  would  think  his  hands  as  clean  of  it  as 
the  face  of  stars  are  from  dust,  but  he  would 
wince  under  it.  Why?  W7hy,  because  he  is  so 
fine.  What  is  the  difference?  Odds  of  difference 
— odds.  It  pays  to  be  sensitive.  It  does,  even 
if  it  hurts?  WThy,  surely,  surely. 

Suppose  I  go  and  wash  my  hands  with  soap, 
and,  having  rendered  them  saponaceous,  I  say 
they  are  clean.  But  when  the  doctor  comes  and 
he  wants  me  to  help  in  some  operation,  he  says: 
“Wash  your  hands.” 

Well,  I  say:  “Doctor,  I  have.  I  have  just 
washed  them.  They  are  as  clean  as  ever.” 

“Ah,”  he  says,  “take  some  of  this  and  wash 
your  hands.  I  want  them  clean.  We  are  going 
to  do  business  now.” 

And  he  makes  me  wash  in  something  to  wash 
the  microbes  off.  Can’t  a  man  even  keep  mi¬ 
crobes?  Must  he  be  rid  of  them  before  he  is 
clean?  Now,  my  washing  did  very  well  for 
ordinary  business,  but  when  a  man  is  going  to 
handle  flesh  of  other  folks,  then  he  must  clean 
his  hands.  Ah,  brothers,  when  a  man  or  woman 


32 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


gets  close  to  God,  then  he  knows  that  his  hands 
are  black,  and  puts  them  behind  him — puts  them 
behind  him.  Now,  a  person  lacking  in  fineness 
will  hold  out  his  hands  in  the  daylight  and  say: 
“I  have  clean  hands.”  Why  is  it  he  does  that? 
Dense;  just  dense.  You  say  to  a  small  boy, 
“Sonny,  wash  yourself.” 

He  says,  “I  have.” 

“Come  here,”  and  you  turn  back  his  ears  or 
turn  them  forward,  and  you  lift  up  his  chin  and 
say:  “Look  there,  and  look  at  your  hands.  They 
are  so  dirty.” 

He  didn’t  notice.  He  washed  them.  They  are 
clean  to  him.  But  he  is  a  boy;  and  cleanliness 
is  not  the  specific  virtue  of  a  boy.  The  finest 
people  are  the  most  wTorried  at  sin,  and  I  could 
stand  here  for  hours  together  and  show  that  the 
cleanest  souls  that  have  ever  walked  the  ground 
of  the  world  have  been  most  appalled  of  sin. 
The  thing  that  impresses  me  the  most  in  David 
Livingstone’s  Journals  in  Africa  is  never  what 
he  found,  never  that  he  added  a  million  square 
miles  to  the  knowledge  of  mankind’s  geography, 
never  that  he  did  all  this;  that  is  all  in  the  Journal 
which  constitutes  one  of  the  most  engaging  pages 
in  the  history  of  lonely  achievements.  But  the 
wonder  of  David  Livingstone’s  Journal  is  that  he 
is  so  aware  that  he  is  unclean.  Did  you  hear  him 
talking  about  himself  not  being  fit  for  God?  It 
tramps  like  chariot  horses  shod  with  iron.  I  will 
say  that  every  good  person  who  has  marched  to 


THE  IMPENITENT  CHRIST 


33 


manhood  and  womanhood  and  was  neighborly 
to  sanity  has  been  ashamed  of  himself  and  has  said, 
“I  have  sinned,  I  have  sinned.5’  And  the  man 
who  lias  stood  far  off  and  put  his  hands  on  his 
eyes  and  then  dropped  his  hands  to  his  breast 
and  then  hammered  on  the  breast  of  an  easeless 
conscience  within  him  and  said  as  he  looked  down, 
“O  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me,  a  sinner,”  that  is  a 
man  I  will  look  up  in  heaven.  He  was  not  made 
out  of  brass;  he  was  made  out  of  spirit. 

You  know  Saint  Augustine — why,  his  book 
fairly  teems  with  lightnings.  Whose?  His. 
Against  whom?  Against  himself.  Was  it  rever¬ 
berant  with  praise  of  himself?  No.  Did  John 
Bunyan  praise  himself?  No.  Did  Martin  Luther 
praise  himself?  No.  Did  John  Wesley  praise 
himself?  No.  Did  Rutherford  praise  himself? 
No.  Did  Madam  Guy  on  praise  herself?  No.  Why 
not?  Why,  they  were  too  fine-fibered.  They 
said:  “O  God,  forget  a  good  deal  and  forgive  the 
rest.  Give  me  a  chance.”  I  think  the  lives  of 
the  great  goodnesses  of  the  world  are  so  bewilder¬ 
ing  because  the  more  cleansed  they  are  the  more 
incompetent  they  seem  to  their  own  soul.  Modesty 
is  a  passion  of  great  souls,  not  a  passion  of  leather 
people.  Religious  modesty  is  a  passion  of  the 
religious  and  the  holy  and  the  sublime.  And  by 
reasoning,  therefore,  do  we  not  discover  that  this 
religious  Christ,  if  he  have  more  sensitiveness, 
he  must  be  utterly  appalled  by  sin? 


34 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Well,  was  Jesus  morally  sensitive?  Ah,  you 
know,  you  can  tell  that  by  being  with  him.  The 
centuries  have  found  in  Jesus  the  standard  for 
fine  life.  You  find  me  a  fine  body  and  I  will 
find  you  somebody  who  has  gotten  Christ  by 
heart.  Mark  you,  some  people  have  Christ  at 
heart  and  then  forget  where  they  got  their  beauty. 
I  think  this  is  the  grossest  dishonesty  I  have 
seen.  Men  will  take  civilization  from  the  hands 
of  God  and  use  it  in  all  its  beauty  and  then  turn 
their  backs  on  God  and  say,  “I  didn’t  see  him 
make  that.”  Well,  clean  lives  will  be  the  in¬ 
carnation  of  the  love  of  Christ’s  life.  He  was 
so  sensitive  that  he  was  like  the  quick  of  the 
finger  with  the  nail  removed.  Christ  would  not 
argue  with  sins.  He  went  back  of  them  and  said, 
“Don’t  think  them.”  He  said  murder  is  a  good 
deal  deeper  in  the  soul  than  the  stabbing  of  a 
sleeping  man  with  a  knife.  He  didn’t  say,  “Don’t 
carry  the  knife”;  that  would  be  like  some  of 
your  shilly-shally  reformers  to  say,  “Don’t  carry 
the  knife.”  The  law  says  that.  The  law  simply 
maintains  decency.  Don’t  carry  the  knife.  Did 
Jesus  say  don’t  carry  the  knife?  No.  Did  he 
say  pull  murder  out  of  your  heart?  No,  not  that. 
What  did  he  say?  He  said,  “Pull  out  of  your 
heart  malice  and  hate.”  That  is  the  sensitive 
Jesus.  He  did  not  leave  matters  to  appearances, 
but  he  gathered  life  and  reduced  it.  You  show 
me  an  utterly  beautiful  woman  and  I  will  find 
you  a  woman  who  incarnates  in  her  life  the  life, 


THE  IMPENITENT  CHRIST 


35 


the  graciousness,  and  the  ineffability  of  Jesus. 
Could  you  think  of  Jesus  sitting  around  with 
crudeness?  Perish  that  thought.  When  you 
have  been  with  Jesus  you  know  better.  Do  you 
think  that  covetous  Judas  would  have  counted 
the  collection  in  Jesus’  presence  and  say,  “Didn’t 
get  so  much  to-day  as  yesterday”?  Could  you 
think  that  of  Jesus?  Would  he  let  that  transpire 
in  his  presence?  No.  Judas  took  the  cash  out 
and  counted  it,  and  Jesus  wasn’t  around,  and  he 
said,  “Won’t  get  rich  fast  that  way.”  But  in 
Christ’s  presence  he  couldn’t.  Why?  Christ 
was  sensitive — and  so  fine. 

Did  Christ  sin?  Well,  he  said,  “Which  of  you 
says  that  I  sin?”  There  are  two  items  which  have 
sometimes  been  adduced  as  sin  items  in  the 
character  of  Jesus.  I  name  them  but  to  pass 
them.  Objectors  have  said  that  Jesus  did  a  wrong 
when  he  cursed  the  fig  tree  because  it  had  leaves 
and  looked  like  it  was  doing  business  but  had  no 
fruit.  Now,  you  know,  brothers  and  sisters,  the 
trouble  with  people  who  carp  in  that  way  is  that 
they  seem  never  to  have  been  around  where  big 
thoughts  run  loose.  It  is  such  a  pity  to  eternally 
want  everything  reduced  to  the  little.  You  know 
when  a  boy  is  playing  marbles  in  the  street,  if 
you  should  give  him  the  dome  of  a  capitol  to  play 
with,  he  wouldn’t  play  with  it  because  he  couldn’t 
fit  it  to  his  finger  and  thumb.  Now,  some  people 
are  eternally  peremptory  about  having  things 


36 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


little  enough.  Let’s  have  things  as  little  as  a 
marble.  Now,  such  people,  whatever  they  may 
or  may  not  have  been,  cannot  understand  Jesus 
because  they  don’t  get  within  a  million  centuries’ 
distance  of  him.  What  was  Christ  doing?  Was 
he  mad  at  the  lig  tree?  That  is  what  these  fine 
ethicists  say.  Mad  at  the  fig  tree  and  cursed  it? 
Ah,  me,  have  we  no  more  breadth  of  vision  or 
skyline  than  that?  Jesus  had  a  lot  of  disciples 
with  him  who  were  slow  men,  and  inept  in  spiritual 
matters.  And  Jesus  went  to  get  breakfast  at  the 
fig  tree,  and  the  fig  tree  deceived  him,  and  Jesus 
calmly  said,  “There  will  be  no  figs  on  this  bush.” 
And  when  the  disciples  went  by  the  next  time 
the  fig  tree  had  withered  away.  What  withered 
it?  It  disappointed  God.  That  will  wither  any¬ 
thing.  Disappointed  God!  What  did  he  do 
with  the  fig  tree?  Made  it  an  eternal  parable 
of  the  people  who  disappoint  God.  They  bear 
no  fruit  for  any  hungry  life  and  wither  away. 
That  is  all.  Why,  cannot  God  do  with  one  of 
his  own  trees  in  his  own  way?  I  wonder  now. 
Cannot  God  cut  down  the  tree  that  doesn’t  bear 
fruit?  Why,  anybody  could  do  that.  Jesus  said 
to  the  fig  tree,  “You  are  a  sham,  and  shams  had 
best  be  found  out.”  I  marvel  at  the  people  who 
haven’t  the  perception  to  see  the  marvel  of  Jesus. 

The  next  thing  these  ethical  precisians  say  is 
that  when  Jesus  drove  the  devils  into  the  swine 
and  then  the  swine  drowned  themselves,  Jesus 


THE  IMPENITENT  CHRIST 


37 


appropriated  other  people’s  property.  There  was 
a  man  homeless  and  forlorn,  and  he  was  a  man 
away  from  his  family,  dwelling  in  the  graveyards. 
He  couldn’t  be  bound  with  chains;  he  could 
break  fetters  of  brass.  And  they  tried  to  make 
him  a  prisoner,  and  he  broke  all  chains — he  was 
that  wild  and  fierce  and  fearful.  And  Jesus 
turned  the  devils  out  of  him  into  where  they 
belonged,  among  the  swine  that  rooted  in  the 
dirt;  and  devils  that  were  to  run  a  man  into 
death  did  the  like  with  the  swine.  Now,  I  want 
to  know  how  could  the  great  Christ  sin  by  that? 
And  these  ethical  folk  had  best  remember  that 
God  could  well  reserve  himself  the  right  to  use 
property  under  condition. 

It  may  happen  once  in  a  while,  in  the  spring, 
down  toward  the  Mississippi’s  mouth,  that  tracts 
of  land  they  call  plantations,  with  a  thug  like  a 
sob,  will  slip  into  the  Mississippi — plantation 
houses  and  plantation  lands — and  the  Mississippi 
will  roll  over  them.  And  God  is  all  the  while 
dispossessing  people  of  things  betimes  and  for 
high  moral  uses.  I  wonder  what  conceivable 
outcome  would  have  been  so  unforgetable  as  that 
demon  incident.  O  heart,  mark  that  the  man 
clothed  in  his  right  mind  is  at  the  feet  of  Jesus. 
That  is  what  he  did.  May  God  teach  the  larger 
lesson?  What  is  he  going  to  do?  What  is  he  go¬ 
ing  to  get  rid  of?  Slavery.  How  will  he  do  it? 
By  writing  a  proclamation  of  emancipation?  No. 
By  letting  the  bluecoats  cut  the  gray  coats’ 


38 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


breasts?  Listen!  How  many  of  them  died  ridding 
America  of  slavery?  0,  you  say,  a  weary,  weary, 
weary,  numerous  company  of  them.  Did  it  pay? 
Yes,  because  slaves  are  free,  centuries  of  them 
are  free  now.  God  reserves  to  himself  the  right 
to  do  the  largest.  Very  well.  These  are  trivial 
matters  to  interpose,  but  they  are  objections 
offered.  It  says  this:  You  cannot  find  in  Jesus 
a  trespass  on  the  domains  of  sin,  and  himself 
said,  4 ‘Which  of  you  convinceth  me  of  sin?” 

Brothers,  sisters,  here  is  a  sinless  Christ.  What 
he  said  of  himself  the  centuries  have  had  to 
affirm.  I  do  not  say  they  wanted  to,  but  they 
had  to.  If  you  take  the  career  of  Christ,  you 
will  need  to  set  yourself  sullenly  to  work  to  show 
a  suggestion  of  sin  on  him,  and  with  the  rest  of 
the  people  of  the  centuries  you  have  got  to  set 
yourself  blindly  looking  with  your  eyes  opaque 
as  dirt  or  else  see  them  utterly  smeared  with  sin. 

Now,  what  comes  out  of  this?  This:  There 
was  once  only  a  sinless  man  in  our  town.  Who? 
Abraham?  He  was  a  sinner.  Enoch?  He  was 
a  sinner.  Moses?  He  was  a  sinner.  Isaiah?  He 
was  a  sinner.  Paul?  He  was  a  sinner.  John? 
He  was  a  sinner.  Who  is  this?  It  is  Christ. 
What  is  that  he  said?  “Which  of  you  convinceth 
me  of  sin?”  “He  was  without  sin,  neither  was 
guile  found  in  his  mouth.”  That  is  what  Peter 
said,  who  lived  with  him,  and  that  is  what  the 
centuries  have  said  about  him.  “He  was  with¬ 
out  sin,  and  guile  was  not  found  in  his  mouth.” 


THE  IMPENITENT  CHRIST 


39 


O  soul,  take  yourself  by  the  throat  now  and  hold 
yourself  up  to  that.  Who  is  he?  All  the  men  of 
the  earth,  I  said,  have  been  sinners,  but  here  is 
a  Man  who  said  he  was  not  a  sinner,  and  we 
must  in  honor  and  with  frankness  hear  him. 
Who  is  he?  There  is  only  one  answer,  and  that 
is  this:  He  is  “God,  manifest  in  flesh,  full  of 
grace  and  truth.” 

And  if  you  thought  for  a  moment  that  I  was 
passing  a  road  that  needed  not  to  be  journeyed 
over,  think  you  this:  if  Jesus  is  the  Sinless  One, 
then  what  Jesus  said  is  so.  If  Jesus  is  impenitent, 
that  is  a  sure  sign  Jesus  was  sinless,  because  the 
sensitive  Christ  would  have  been  the  first  to 
have  felt  the  twinges  of  conscience  and  the  shame 
of  sin.  He  was  impenitent,  and  the  sinless  Christ 
is  the  impenitent  Christ,  and  the  sinless  Christ 
is  the  God-Christ,  and  a  God-Christ  is  sinless 
and  a  truth-teller,  and  therefore  Christianity 
abides.  For  a  sinless  Christ  tells  all  truth  when 
he  says,  “As  Moses  lifted  up  the  serpent  in  the 
wilderness,  so  must  the  Son  of  man  be  lifted  up.” 
He  says  that  “God  so  loved  the  world,  that  he 
gave  his  only  begotten  Son,  that  whosoever  be¬ 
lieved  in  him  should  not  perish,  but  have  ever¬ 
lasting  life.”  He  said,  “I  am  the  way,  the  truth, 
and  the  life:  no  man  cometh  unto  the  Father 
but  by  me.”  He  said,  “I  am  the  resurrection 
and  the  life.”  He  said,  “He  that  drinketh  of  me 
shall  never  thirst.”  He  said, “I  am  the  bread  of 


40 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


life.”  He  said,  “I  am  the  judge  of  the  quick 
and  the  dead.”  He  said,  “Ye  shall  see  me  com¬ 
ing  after  while.”  Who  is  the  Man,  this  sinless 
Body? 

Do  you  wonder  that  a  man’s  face  is  white  and 
his  hands  grow  tremulous  and  his  breath  comes 
short,  as  if  he  journeyed  up  among  the  highest 
altitudes?  Who  are  you  who  never  sinned?  And 
he  says,  “Before  Abraham  was  I  am.”  He  says, 
“I  and  the  Father  are  one.”  He  says,  “He  that 
has  seen  me  has  seen  the  Father.”  He  says, 
“He  that  believeth  on  the  Son  hath  life.”  O, 
Lord  Christ,  thou  impenitent  Christ!  I  worship 
thee.  Thou  art  the  God  of  the  eternities.  Thou 
art  the  resurrection  and  the  life.  Thou  impeni¬ 
tent  and  lovable  Christ,  I  put  my  face  up  to  be 
wet  with  thy  tears  of  blood. 

Prayer:  O  sinless  Saviour,  hallowed  be  thy 
name.  I  worship  thee.  Across  the  universe  I 
would  make  my  weary  unlit  way  to  find  thee  and 
thy  salvation  and  hear  thee  say:  “Thy  sins  be 
forgiven  thee.”  Thou  who  wast  sinless  forgavest 
sins.  it  was  like  thee,  and  thou  couldst. 

Thou  deathless  sinlessness,  minister  to  my 
heart  thy  abundant  absolution  so  that  I  may 
go  out  from  thy  healing  touch  to  sin  no  more, 
for  thy  voice  is  on  my  spirit  as  thy  blood  is  on 
my  heart,  and  thou  dost  bid  me  rise  and  go  and 
sin  no  more. 

Sinless  Saviour,  hallowed  be  thy  Name.  Amen. 


PRAYER 


We  are  looking  for  thee,  our  God.  So  much  we  may  say 
for  ourselves  as  we  kneel  to  pray.  We  are  looking  down¬ 
ward  with  closed  eyes,  but  all  our  glance  is  skyward.  All 
things  we  conceive  are  to  be  seen  looking  up.  Where  the 
sky  climbs  are  spaces  where  we  dimly  know  all  things  are 
hidden  which  we  in  our  major  moods  want  to  discover.  All 
things  hidden  are  hidden  afar  and  on  high. 

We  want  continents.  Archipelagoes  do  not  satisfy  the 
ocean  sweep  of  our  personalities.  We  are  ocean-bound, 
and  in  those  wastes  of  waters  somewhere  lie  not  only  the 
Islands  of  Ilesperides,  but  somewhere  lies  the  Vast  Conti* 
nent  where  we  feel  ourselves  inhabitants.  God  is  our  Conti¬ 
nent.  He  is  where  we  want  to  live  and  must  live  if  we  live 
worthily.  We  want  him.  We  surge  his  way.  We  would 
vainly  outrun  the  hasting  stars  to  come  to  him  and  see 
him  face  to  face. 

And  so  when  we  make  this  sublime  venture  we  meet 
Christ.  Whenever  we  are  outward  bound,  whenever  we  are 
caught  in  the  sweep  of  illimitables,  there  and  then  we  meet 
him.  His  voice  is  on  us.  His  “He  that  hath  seen  me  hath 
seen  the  Father”  is  the  Voice  we  have  eagered  for  all  our 
lost  years.  He  is  thou.  We  worship  him  because  we  must 
worship  thee. 

We  bless  thee  thou  hast  sent  him,  and  bless  him  that  he 
has  come.  Thy  will  to  have  him  come  and  his  will  to  come 
are  one.  He  is  here  and  thou  in  him  art  here. 

How  high  and  clear  thy  sky  seems  to  us  now  and  will 
evermore!  The  seeing  is  good  and  the  going  is  good.  So 
clear  the  sky  is  seeing  thou  art  the  sky.  Stars  do  not  suffice 
us.  We  want  the  sun.  Amen. 


42 


m 


GOD’S  CHARACTER 

“Who  being  .  .  .  the  express  image  of  his  person.” — 
Heh.  1.  3. 

Once  only  in  the  New  Testament  and  once 
only  in  the  entire  Bible  does  the  word  4 ‘character” 
occur.  This  is  odd  when  you  consider  that  the 
Bible,  the  New  Testament  in  particular,  has 
done  more  to  create  and  maintain  character 
than  any  book  of  the  ages,  and,  speaking  with 
meekness  of  spirit,  one  is  yet  compelled  to  say, 
than  all  books  of  all  the  ages.  As  regards  man, 
the  exuberant  word  of  this  Bible-book  is  “char¬ 
acter.”  The  theme  is  ever  that,  changing  in  tints 
and  heavenly  tones,  like  a  sunset  sky,  yet  is  the 
topic,  ever  for  man,  character.  It  has  put  that 
word  into  the  world’s  blood.  You  cannot  con¬ 
verse  about  our  modern  life  the  briefest  while 
without  by  implication  or  explication  thrum¬ 
ming  on  that  mainstring — character.  The  world 
is  run  by  character  now.  It  was  not  so  aforetime. 
Then  it  was  run  by  power.  The  biggest  brute 
owned  the  jungle.  Now,  in  the  face  of  all  torrents 
of  battle,  we  may  still  perceive  that  the  actual 
combat  is  not  a  gun-battle,  but  a  character- 

43 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


44 

battle.  What  does  the  world  out  of  the  fight 
think  of  the  world  in  the  fight?  is  the  question 
which  all  belligerency  must  learn  to  face.  And 
it  is  easier  to  face  bayonet,  shell,  and  liquid  fire 
than  to  face  that.  Character  is  emerging  from 
this  clarion  of  volcanoes.  When  the  smoke,  lava, 
scoriae,  earth  shock,  like  clouds  in  scud,  pass, 
like  a  tall  mountain,  serene  and  wonderlit,  at  the 
last  will  climb  into  eternal  observation — character. 

Character  is  is-ness.  Not  the  paraphernalia,  but 
the  self.  Not  externals  only,  but  spirit,  and 
mainly  spirit;  howbeit  not  spirit  solely,  but  spirit 
at  work,  like  climbing  saps,  to  build  the  trunk 
of  life  and  eventuate  in  leaf  and  bloom  and  fruit, 
and  music  of  the  wind  at  dawn  or  storm.  The 
sure  reliance  we  have  in  ourselves,  in  what  we  are, 
our  dependableness.  The  mountain  against  which 
we  put  our  backs  when  the  battle  charges  at  us 
with  its  wildest  ferocity — that  is  character.  To 
get  at  ourselves  is  the  supreme  adventure  and 
the  supreme  arrival,  including  in  that  thought 
the  self  being  a  thing  worth  while. 

The  New  Testament  may  be  named  the  text¬ 
book  on  character,  yet  mentions  that  word  but 
once,  and  then  not  as  touching  us,  but  touching 
Him,  not  as  touching  man,  but  as  touching  God. 
“The  character  of  God’s  person”  is  a  vasty 
phrase  which  shines  forth  a  vasty  fact. 

In  the  King  James  Version  of  the  Bible  this 
word  “%apa/cT?7p”  is  rendered  “express  image”; 
in  the  American  Revised  Version  it  is  translated 


GOD’S  CHARACTER 


45 


‘‘very  image.”  Now,  if  we  shall  bring  the  Greek 
word  thus  rendered  across  bodily,  we  shall  be 
confronted  with  a  blaze  of  very  special  glory,  a 
blaze  which  shall  not  blind  but  illuminate.  Our 
word  “character”  is  a  bodily  importation  from  the 
Greek,  one  word  with  which  we  have  not  tam¬ 
pered  as  our  language  does  with  so  many  of  its 
verbal  acquisitions  and  borrowings. 

Christ  is  God’s  character.  This  talk  is  about 
God,  not  about  man.  And  still  is  the  talk  about 
God  in  this  Bible  ever  eventually  talk  about 
man.  The  Bible  is  a  room  opening  wide  windows 
in  two  directions,  one  window  opening  on  God, 
the  other  window  opening  on  man.  God  getting 
at  man,  man  getting  at  God,  is  the  solitary 
though  dual  theme  of  this  noble  and  notable 
Bible-book.  That  is  what  makes  it  so  noble,  so 
notable,  so  isolated  in  unapproachable  splendor. 
God  wants  to  get  at  man;  man  needs  to  get  at 
God.  The  supreme  love  of  God  is  hungry  to  get 
at  man;  the  betterness  and  bestness  in  man  is 
famishing  to  get  at  God.  God  is  saying  to  man, 
“I  am  here;  come.”  Man  is  saying  to  God, 
“Thou  art  there;  I  come.” 

If  a  man  is  to  achieve  character,  how  shall  he 
achieve  it?  “Let  him  grow  it,”  says  some  other¬ 
wise  soul,  “as  he  does  the  oaks  and  the  apple 
trees  and  the  corn  fields,  and  the  wheat.  Let 
him  plant  and  tend.”  This  sounds  so  sensible, 
but  is  so  senile.  We  have  had  our  Confucius, 
our  Mencius,  our  Marcus  Aurelius,  our  Seneca, 


46 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


our  Plato-men  come  over  and  come  out.  We 
know.  They  did  not  come  very  far,  and  they 
did  not  come  out  at  all.  The  jungle  defeated 
them.  They  were  Emersonians  in  their  fine  and 
fluid  phrases,  but  not  a  vine  in  their  vineyard 
ever  bore  grapes  a  second  year.  They  had  to 
nurse  their  vines,  and  we  know  nursed  vines 
do  not  constitute  the  vineyards  of  the  world. 

We  cannot  grow  character.  Character,  in  the 
widest  view,  as  regards  its  origin,  is  an  exporta¬ 
tion,  and  as  regards  its  destination,  an  importa¬ 
tion.  We  do  authentically  grow  character  in  our 
fields,  but  it  is  after  we  have  got  the  graft  from 
heavenly  fields.  We  have  a  word  “export,”  the 
passing  out,  and  a  word  “import/’  the  passing 
in;  but  what  we  need  in  this  sublime  business  of 
character  is  a  word  indicating  the  sending  down, 
namely,  the  importing  downward.  Will  Jcatabasis 
suffice — “the  marching  down” — with  the  other 
word  of  battle  swiftly  following,  anabasis — “the 
battling  up”?  Christ,  we  here  read,  is  the 
“character”  of  God’s  person. 

Character,  namely,  earthly  character,  must  be 
looked  at  not  by  casting  the  eyes  down,  but  by 
casting  the  eyes  up.  So  do  we  behold  the  features 
of  God  and  the  cross  of  God  that  climbs  on  every 
high  horizon  of  this  world.  We  perceive  character, 
not  by  looking  at  “Abraham,  the  friend  of  God,” 
but  at  God,  the  Friend  of  Abraham.  We  cannot 
farm  alone.  We  must  get  seed  to  answer  to  the 
soil.  The  richest  fields  lie  sterile  until  we  bring 


GOD’S  CHARACTER 


47 


the  seed;  and  the  seed-fields  of  the  earth  are  all 
located  in  the  skies.  By  the  light  of  the  far, 
high  sun  do  we  walk  on  the  ground,  and  by  the 
light  of  the  Highest  Sun  do  we  walk  unstumbling 
in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

It  is  all  a  huge  and  beautiful  mystery,  this 
commerce  between  terrestriality  and  celestiality. 
“Whence  comes  life?”  is  the  quite  staggering 
question  science  has  been  putting  to  itself  all  my 
lifetime,  and  up  to  now  it  mumbles  the  same 
question,  like  somnambulistic  speech.  There  is 
only  one  reply  which  can  possibly  be  valid.  Life 
comes  from  behind  those  hills  where  thunder 
sleeps.  Life  cometh  from  the  calm  of  God.  We 
have  become  farmers  by  celestial  agriculture. 
Crops  must  come  back  and  up  to  the  hill  country. 
The  valleys  of  man  do  not  hold  the  secret  of  the 
world.  The  hill  country  named  Calvary  is  where 
the  secret  of  the  world  is  hid.  Behind  the  stars 
very  far  is  where  we  must  push  our  ship  if  we 
shall  come  to  our  desired  haven.  Mariners  steer 
their  ships  by  stars.  Man  steers  his  soul  by  God. 
Who  desire  to  amass  that  unfragile  riches  called 
character  must  raise  their  eyes  to  Christ  who 
is  “the  character  of  God.” 

“Behold,  I  show  you  a  mystery.”  We  are 
clad  in  mystery,  as  the  hills  are  clad  in  light, 
yet  are  we  clad  withal  comfortably.  The  gar¬ 
ments,  if  majestical,  fit  us  well,  for  are  they  not 
also  the  garments  of  mercy  and  of  God? 

Whoso  will  grow  character  must  look  at  Christ. 


48 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


There  seems  to  be  no  other  way.  Apparently, 
all  the  other  ways  have  been  tried  and  have  proven 
too  circuitous,  too  prolonged,  too  dangerous. 
Too  many  Sloughs  of  Despond  lurk  along  the 
road  where  Mr.  Fearing,  as  John  Bunyan  said, 
was  matured  to  full  growth.  The  stumbling 
places  were  too  many,  the  light  too  dim.  Sea 
marshes  and  the  mountain  mists  made  ill  climate 
for  the  soul.  Voices  grew  muffled,  footsteps  were 
invisible,  the  path  could  not  be  identified,  though 
a  body  crawled  on  hands  and  knees.  This  way 
loitered  so  that  life  was  finished  ere  the  journey 
was  well  under  way;  while  such  as  made  a 
measurable  success  could  leave  no  paths  which 
others  could  take. 

The  footpath  of  blood  was  requisite.  Christ 
needed  to  walk  that  way.  He  did.  The  Christ 
of  God  tramped  barefoot  here  and  hath  thereby 
made  indelible  a  path  for  the  feet  of  coming 
pilgrims.  The  Comforter’s  House  is  on  this 
road  and  the  chamber  whose  name  is  Peace. 

“The  character  of  his  Person”  has  given  broad 
daylight  in  which  to  walk.  We  failed  so  utterly 
on  what  character  was  that  we  grew  inconsolable. 
We  were  as  those  bereft.  The  great  Companion 
was  not  dead,  but  had  never  been  born,  is  how 
the  matter  stood.  Character  was  more  a  mummy 
than  a  man.  It  was  a  corpse  which,  when  touched 
by  the  lightning’s  finger,  grows  gymnastic  and 
grotesque  and  creates  terror.  Supernatural  might 
is  serene  and  glad  as  sunup  when  the  swallows  fly. 


GOD’S  CHARACTER 


49 


Even  our  shoes  must  be  of  celestial  make. 
“Shod  with  the  preparation  of  the  gospel  of 
peace” — that  makes  walking  good.  And  we  must 
walk.  We  do  not  fall  into  character.  We  toil  up 
hill,  we  climb;  and  climbing  is  done  by  feet;  but, 
as  the  story  of  mankind  has  demonstrated,  not 
quite  by  bare  feet,  but  by  shod  feet;  and  the 
heavenlies  must  make  our  shoes  for  us.  Our  low¬ 
liest  equipment  for  the  character  enterprise  is 
from  heaven.  The  hortatory  seems  to  be  “Look 
at  the  character  of  God’s  person  and  ascend.” 

All  books  of  character,  when  wisely  written, 
are  at  deep  concern  about  the  shape,  the  mag¬ 
nitude,  the  vast  cosmic  outlines  of  character. 
Whence  comes  our  definitive  information  as  to 
what  ultimate  character  should  be?  Who  knows 
the  mind  of  this  business  must  follow  “the  gleam” 
(my  soul,  hast  thou  read,  then,  and  recently, 
Alfred  Tennyson’s  “Merlin  and  the  Gleam”? 
If  thou  hast  not,  I  rebuke  thee  openly,  thou  art 
remiss  in  a  noble  matter.  Read  that  poem 
through  upon  thy  knees,  with  prayer  and  it  may 
be,  in  tears),  but  what  gleam  shall  we  follow? 
Gleams  be  many.  Some  are  the  glowworm’s 
lamp,  some  the  firefly’s  glow,  some  the  ignis- 
fatuus  fire,  which  is  rottenness  striking  a  light. 
Denominate  the  gleam.  Get  for  me  the  common 
denominator  of  the  soul’s  gleam.  These  lights 
mislead,  and,  besides,  they  flicker  so  and  there 
is  no  path  where  they  burn.  I  need  a  lamp;  and 
certainly  my  lamp  must  be  lit  by  God. 


50 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


God  is  character.  How-he-is,  is  my  goal.  I 
struggled  upward  unto  him.  He  is  my  destina¬ 
tion.  “O,  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find  him!” 
that  yearned  and  sobbed  long  years  ago  out  of 
one  of  the  bravest  souls  that  ever  drew  breath 
and  lifted  prayer.  Because  it  was  so  hard  to  know 
the  character  of  God,  which  was  the  eventual 
thing  for  humanity  to  aspire  unto,  God  stepped 
out  of  doors  into  the  full  blaze  of  spring  day¬ 
light  and  let  men  look  at  “his  character.”  The 
name  of  that  High  revelation  was  Christ.  Christ 
was  “the  character  of  his  person.”  Soul,  lift 
thy  hallelujah.  Out  of  thick  darkness  God  has 
stepped  into  that  light  which  never  was  on  land 
or  sea. 

So  is  this  business  of  men’s  souls  simplified. 
Character  need  not  search  for  the  path  any  more. 
Christ  is  here.  We  are  to  be  like  God!  “Be  ye 
holy,  for  I  am  holy,”  saith  the  Lord.  How  holy 
is  this  Lord?  We  cannot  see  him  in  the  privacy 
of  eternity.  Then  God  stepped  into  time.  He 
made  descent.  He  came  near  my  house.  He 
lingered,  walking  slowly,  and  then — came  in. 
His  name  was  Christ.  At  eventide  he  broke 
bread  and  was  known  unto  us  in  the  breaking 
of  bread.  He  stayed  all  night.  We  saw  out  in 
the  open  how  God  looked. 

But  we  saw  God’s  looks,  the  real  thing,  not  a 
picture,  not  an  imaginary  sketch,  but  in  the 
light  we  looked  upon  the  lineaments  of  God, 
since  which  time  casuistry  has  not  needed  to 


GOD’S  CHARACTER 


51 


babble  and  the  philosophical  prattler  might  hold 
his  peace  nor  vex  the  air  with  his  discordant 
sounds.  We  saw  character  in  his  full  bright 
light.  But  not  blinding.  It  was  diffused,  gentle, 
tempered  to  our  sight,  fitted  to  our  school-boy 
perceptions.  Glorious,  yet  not  affrighting.  This 
Character’s  name  was  Christ. 

And  his  name  is  Christ,  Christ-God.  We  have 
seen  the  Father,  and  it  sufficeth  us.  Christ  is  not 
the  picture  of  God;  Christ  is  the  very  character 
of  God.  We  look  at  him  and  our  life  begins  its 
jubilee.  We  cease  arguing  what  character  is 
and  begin  toilingly  to  possess  it. 

Those  tapestry  weavers  long  ago  sat  behind 
the  tapestry  to  weave  it.  We  sit  in  front  of 
Christ  to  weave  the  tapestry  called  character, 
and  we  weave  it  before  our  face — and  his.  We 
know  the  pattern  is  perfect  and  stumble  toward 
it.  Great  stumbiers  we;  yet,  stumbling  toward 
the  character  of  God,  we  shall  on  some  elect 
day,  cloud  or  shine,  come  into  the  presence  of 
God;  and  with  laughter  like  the  chime  of  bells 
we  shall  call  out,  “Home!” 


PRAYER 

Our  ever  blessed  Master,  we  love  thee  with  a  renewed 
affection.  We  count  our  lives  in  all  their  rounds  of  activ¬ 
ities  and  emotions  with  reference  to  thyself.  Always  our 
hearts  turn  to  thee  as  the  sunflower  to  the  sun.  We  would 
never  leave  thee  nor  forsake  thee.  The  leap  of  our  hearts 
is  always  toward  thyself.  How  fair  thou  art  to  our  hearts, 
how  strong  thou  art  in  our  intellections,  how  thou  dost 
sweep  over  our  souls  like  the  wash  of  wild  and  salt  sea  waves, 
and  in  the  drench  of  thyself  is  health  and  healing  and  delight. 
We  become  all  new.  Vast  vigors  are  in  our  blood  when  thy 
blood  has  washed  our  hearts.  “Thou,  O  Christ,  art  all  I 
want” — even  so  runs  the  ritual  of  our  spirits.  If  we  stray 
from  thee,  to  what  worthy  goal  can  we  think  to  come?  Thou 
art  not  only  on  the  road  to  all  good  things,  but  thou  art 
the  Road  to  all  good  things.  Keep  our  feet  on  that  Road, 
O  Christ,  and  we  shall  rest  content  in  thee.  Amen. 


52 


IV 


MYSTERY  A  CREDENTIAL  OF 
CHRISTIANITY 

My  theme  is,  4 ‘Mystery  a  Credential  of  Chris¬ 
tianity,’ '  and  my  text  is  in  the  Book  of  First 
Timothy,  the  third  chapter  and  the  sixteenth 
verse,  the  words  being  as  follows:  “And  without 
controversy  great  is  the  mystery  of  godliness.” 

And  is  there,  then,  mystery  in  godliness?  Cer¬ 
tainly.  How  else?  God  is  the  climax  of  mystery; 
he  is  the  architect  of  the  world;  he  contrives  the 
system  in  which  we  are;  everything  that  God 
has  made  is  in  so  far  like  him  that  everything 
he  has  created  is  like  himself,  mysterious.  Now, 
a  good  many  people  make  much  of  the  mysteri¬ 
ousness  of  Christianity.  They  feel,  or  have 
schooled  themselves  to  feel,  that  the  mystery 
that  enshrouds  Christianity  is  a  justifiable  cause 
for  the  rejection  of  the  Christian  system. 

Now,  Christianity  is  all  those  appliances  which 

God  makes  use  of  to  make  people  like  he  is.  We 

ourselves  are  mysterious;  he  himself  is  super- 

mysterious.  That  system  of  movements  by  which 

the  great  God  tries  to  widen  our  life  till  it  grows 

beautiful  and  wide  like  his  life,  who  among  all 

53 


54 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


of  you,  when  you  come  to  the  matter  with  co¬ 
herent,  deliberate,  manly,  devout  thinking,  can 
suppose  it  should  be  different  in  mystery  from 
the  profoundest  things  of  the  universe  of  God? 

There  are  three  things  I  design  by  God’s  help 
this  morning  to  bring  to  your  consideration : 
one  is,  mystery  adds  zest;  another  is,  mystery 
in  life  is  no  prevention  of  belief  in  the  facts  of 
experience;  the  third  is,  that  mystery  in  itself 
is  a  good  reason  why  we  ought  to  believe  that 
Christianity  came  from  God. 

Now,  anything  we  understand,  we  are  done 
with.  The  reason  why  a  great  many  of  the  arts 
of  ordinary  trade  are  not  adducing  and  conducing 
to  intellectuality  is  because  we  understand  them; 
no  thought  is  required,  no  tribute  is  laid  on  the 
imagination;  and  where  imagination  sleeps,  intel- 
lectualization  dies:  we  do  our  deed  automatically, 
we  write  our  account,  we  dig  in  our  garden,  we 
hoe  in  our  fields,  we  plow  in  our  domain,  and 
these  things  requiring  no  overt  act  of  thought¬ 
fulness  on  our  part,  but  running  automatic-wise, 
our  mind  may  dwarf  what  time  we  do  the  things. 
We  don’t  take  any  delight  in  the  spelling  books 
we  used  to  enjoy  after  our  fashion.  We  don’t, 
care  for  the  primer  books  we  used  to  read,  for 
the  sole  reason  that  we  understand  them ;  we  have 
gotten  from  them  all  the  life  they  had  to  offer. 
It  is  as  if  we  talked  with  a  man  who  knew  only 
one  word;  who  was  tongue-tied  in  speech,  whose 
vocabulary  consisted  of  one  word  and  that  a 


MYSTERY  OF  CHRISTIANITY 


monosyllable:  I  will  not  care  to  talk  with  him, 
he  cannot  elaborate  argument,  he  cannot  cham¬ 
pion  opinions,  he  cannot  attach  my  attention,  he 
cannot  convoke  an  assembly  of  superior  powers; 
he  lacks,  because  I  understand  all  he  can  do. 
Now,  the  moment  anything  is  comprehended  that 
moment  it  becomes  detachable.  As  soon  as  I 
comprehend  any  single  fact  I  know  that  fact  no 
more  in  the  working  tools  of  my  life.  There 
isn't  anything  we  come  to  deal  with  but  what, 
when  we  understand  all  about  it,  we  do  in  thought 
put  it  aside.  There  isn’t  anything  that  compels 
consideration,  that  awakes  aspiration  and  atten¬ 
tion,  that  calls  for  an  electrified  consideration  on 
our  part — not  one  thing  but  what,  in  itself,  is 
as  deep  and  mysterious  as  the  deep  seas  are  un¬ 
fathomable  by  the  stone  which  the  child  holds 
in  its  hand  and  leans  over  the  taffrail  of  a  swift 
steamer  and  throws  into  the  blue  surface  of  the 
water. 

You  don’t  object  to  a  poet  because  you  cannot 
comprehend  his  genius,  do  you?  Because  you  are 
not  shrewd  enough  to  understand  the  intuitional 
mechanism  by  which  the  superb  faculties  in  him 
begin  to  maneuver  and  the  bewildering  shuttles 
begin  to  play,  you  don’t  affect  his  verse  to  have 
no  attraction  for  you.  The  reason  why  you  like 
to  tamper  with  poets  is  because  you  do  not 
understand  them.  I  have  here  two  books.  There 

is  written  on  the  title  page:  “ -  - 

James  Whitcomb  Riley.”  If  you  could  talk  with 


56 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Mr.  Riley,  if  you  should  say  to  him,  “How  do  you 
make  poetry?”  he  will  tell  you,  won’t  he?  No. 
One  time  I  stopped  him  on  the  street  corner, 
and  asked  him  certain  things  about  his  poetry 
— clandestinely,  you  understand;  I  thought  if  I 
could  catch  his  way,  I  could  swing  off  his  verse, 
but  he  didn’t  tell.  Just  in  the  suavest,  blandest 
way  I  could  muster,  I  asked  him  about  his  poetry ; 
I  asked  him  a  lot,  and  he  didn’t  tell  me  a  syllable. 
He  was  as  bland  as  I  was,  he  was  as  courteous  as 
I  was,  plus ,  but  he  did  not  tell  me  one  thing. 
He  wasn’t  quite  sure  which  was  his  best  poem. 
I  was.  He  could  not  tell  how  the  inspirations 
came  once  and  vanished:  he  could  not  tell  how 
themes  came  to  him — he  could  not  tell.  He 
could  not  tell  where  he  got  his  ink  that  was  bottled 
sunlight.  He  could  not  tell  whence  he  gathered 
the  odors  he  hath  pressed  in  his  books  like  rose 
leaves  to  stay  with  perfume  forever.  But  do  you 
think,  because  he  could  not  tell  me  how  he  con¬ 
trived  his  poetry,  that  I  lost  interest  in  his  poetry 
and  in  him?  Why,  if  he  could  have  opened  the 
book  of  his  genius,  and  told  me  all  the  gyrations 
of  his  mind,  if  he  had  shown  me  all  the  scintilla¬ 
tions  of  his  poetic  ability,  I  should  have  lost 
interest  in  him;  I  could  have  contrived  after  his 
fashion;  but  he  did  not  know  how  he  did  it,  and 
he  could  not  tell  how. 

Some  people  can  always  tell  best  what  they 
don’t  know.  I  have  known  some  people  who 
were  perfectly  voluble,  like  a  tumultuous  river 


MYSTERY  OF  CHRISTIANITY 


57 


when  the  spring  rains  were  swelling  it,  and  they 
talked  immensely  when  they  talked  about  things 
they  were  as  ignorant  of  as  a  cow  is  of  society 
or  astronomy;  but  when  it  came  to  things  they 
knew  about  they  were  as  mum  as  oysters.  The 
only  possible  consideration  under  which  they 
could  become  spontaneous  in  their  discussion 
was  when  they  knew  nothing  whatsoever,  and 
could  not  contradict  themselves,  because  they 
had  no  thesis  to  maintain. 

Genius  cannot  tell  its  secret.  It  does  not  know 
it,  and  if  it  did,  it  could  not  tell  it,  because  there 
is  no  vocabulary  qualified  to  do  the  deed.  If  I 
read  a  poem  from  Riley,  will  you  understand 
how  he  wrote  it?  You  will  not.  You  are  thor¬ 
oughly  acquainted  with  him;  you  have  neigh¬ 
bored  with  him  many  years;  when  you  go  to  his 
house  on  Lockerbie  Street,  you  knock  at  the 
door — which  I  think  to  be  one  of  the  signs  that 
you  are  on  approachable  and  intimate  terms; 
you  don’t  clang  at  the  doorbell  like  any  other 
tramp;  you  don’t  ring  the  bell  like  any  other 
friend;  you  knock  at  the  door;  they  know  you 
personally  and  they  come  to  the  door,  and  they 
let  you  in — you  are  friendly  at  that  house.  Are 
you  so  friendly  that  you  go  and  knock  three  or 
four  raps,  and  he  comes  to  the  door  and  says: 
“Well,  now,  come  in  and  stay  awhile.  Don’t  be 
in  a  hurry;  I’m  glad  to  see  you”?  If  you  are 
never  so  familiar  with  him,  can  you  understand 
how  he  did  these  things?  You  cannot.  There 


58 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


is  not  a  man  in  all  this  company  that  can  explain 
such  considerations  as  those.  I  will  have  you 
explain  the  mechanism  of  the  genius  whereby 
he  brought  the  things  to  pass. 

Did  you  ever  read  a  book  called  King  Lear? 
Did  you  try  to  find  out  about  a  man  called  Shake¬ 
speare?  And  did  you  reread  King  Lear ,  and  did 
you  find  out  about  Shakespeare,  and  did  you 
read  it  once  more  and  try  to  find  out  more  about 
Shakespeare?  Why,  nobody  ever  found  out  about 
King  Lear;  the  bewildered  faculties  could  not 
understand  the  character,  nor  the  one  who  con¬ 
trived  it  because  the  contriver  is  alwrays  greater 
than  the  thing  contrived.  No  mechanism  is  as 
big  as  the  machinist.  No  ship  is  ever,  in  brain 
and  bulk,  like  the  man  from  whose  fertile  intellect 
the  thing  sprang  to  toil  across  the  seas  and  hammer 
the  passing  waves  down.  Why,  do  you  know, 
nobody  understands  King  Lear. 

Do  you  quit  reading  King  Lear  because  you 
do  not  understand  how  it  was  contrived?  Do  you 
quit  giving  attention  to  Shakespeare  because  the 
lips  of  the  secrets  of  his  genius  are  as  silent  as 
the  Sphinx?  No:  you  love  him  most  because  you 
comprehend  him  least.  Is  not  that  the  truth? 

Why  is  womanhood  enchanting? — I  appeal  to 
womanhood  because  it  is  the  most  bewildering 
study  God  has  given  us.  Now,  I  take  it  for 
granted  that  every  man  knows  he  does  not  under¬ 
stand  womanhood,  and,  after  living  many  years, 
I  am  of  opinion  that  womanhood  does  not  under- 


MYSTERY  OF  CHRISTIANITY 


59 


stand  herself.  She  will  not  say  she  does  not, 
she  will  look  astute,  and,  strange  to  affirm,  will 
say  nothing.  She  does  not  understand  woman 
any  more  than  you  imagine  you  do;  she  does 
not  understand  herself  any  better  than  you  do. 
She  knows  what  she  does;  but  she  does  not  know 
what  she  will  do  next.  That  is  the  reason  why 
every  woman  is  delightful:  neither  she  nor  you 
nor  any  other  creature  knows  what  conceivable 
thing  she  will  conceivably  do  next.  You  ask  her 
why  a  woman  in  her  natural  attitude  stands 
against  women  and  for  men,  and  she  cannot  tell 
you.  She  says  she  does  not,  but  she  does;  and 
the  more  she  says  she  does  not,  the  more  you 
understand  she  does.  If  you  ask  a  mother  why 
she  favors  her  boys  more  than  her  girls,  she  will 
say  she  does  not,  but  she  does;  it  is  the  sex  in¬ 
stinct,  and  the  girls  say,  “Now,  mama,  I  know 
you  love  Charlie  better  than  me!”  And  you 
ask  her  why  she  criticizes  the  girl  for  doing  things 
for  which  she  would  not  condemn  the  boy,  and 
she  cannot  tell  you  for  her  life.  You  ask  her 
why,  when  she  has  a  son  at  her  house,  she  is  on 
the  defensive  against  every  other  woman,  and 
she  cannot  tell;  but  there  never  was  a  woman 
that  had  a  son  beloved  that  didn’t  want  to  keep 
every  other  woman’s  arm  away  from  him,  and  she 
resented  any  other  woman  being  around;  and  she 
would  look  out  of  the  window  when  her  boy  came 
rollicking  home  from  school,  and  a  strange,  vin¬ 
dictive  look  would  steal  into  her  eyes,  and  she 


60 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


would  think,  “There  isn’t  a  girl  in  the  world  fit 
for  my  son!”  Would  it  do  any  good  to  try  to 
find  out  why  this  is  so?  No,  it  would  not.  Women 
don’t  know,  and  nobody  else  knows.  Does  any¬ 
body  know  why?  You  have  studied  women, 
my  man  friend,  and  you  are  a  good  deal  interested 
in  the  subject;  and,  indeed,  it  is  a  very  fascinating 
and  charming  subject.  We  never  get  too  much 
of  it.  The  more  we  know  them  the  more  we  like 
them;  God  bless  womanhood  forever;  bless  her 
for  her  clean  spirit  and  wondrous  life.  But  do 
you  lose  interest  in  her  because  you  cannot  under¬ 
stand  her?  No!  You  just  go  at  it  again.  You 
say,  “Goodness  me,  if  I  had  known  what  you 
wanted,  I  would  have  gotten  it  for  you.”  When 
you  ask  a  woman  what  she  wants,  she  says,  “I 
should  think  you’d  know”  How  in  the  name  of 
sense  does  she  think  “you’d  know”?  You  are 
in  love  with  a  woman,  but  you  don’t  understand 
her,  do  you?  But  just  go  right  on  courting  her. 
That  is  it,  just  go  right  on.  The  more  you  don’t 
understand  her  the  more  you  like  her.  In  other 
words,  the  mystery  in  her  does  not  preclude 
interest  in  her;  it  stimulates  interest.  If  women 
could  understand  men  as  well  as  they  think  they 
do,  they  would  lose  interest  in  them.  But  women 
don’t  understand  men  altogether. 

In  other  words,  the  mystery  of  life  stimulates 
interest;  and  I  want  to  know  by  what  sort  of 
philosophy  (seeing  all  things  about  us  that  are 
germane  to  your  thinking,  are  impressive  to  you 


MYSTERY  OF  CHRISTIANITY 


61 


in  proportion  to  their  power  of  stimulation,  and 
seeing  stimulation  belongs  to  things  in  proportion 
to  their  mystery) — I  want  to  know  how  you 
think  Christianity  is  going  to  be  like  a  book  of 
one  word,  like  a  primer  book?  If  Christianity 
were  understood  by  everybody,  it  would  be  like 
a  stream  whose  shallows  were  its  depths  and 
whose  depths  were  its  shallows. 

There  is  a  flower  that  grows  in  the  ice  fields 
of  the  Alps.  It  hath  the  bluebell  flower.  The 
flash  of  its  beauty  is  like  the  light  when  pressed 
against  the  green  ice  field.  When  the  spring 
draws  near  you  shall  find,  as  you  go  along  the 
glacier  edge,  what  seems  a  drift  of  solid  ice, 
but  looking  closely,  you  will  perceive  there  are 
hundreds  of  these  blue  flowers  growing  in  the 
ice.  We  can  understand  how  they  might  be 
there  when  the  ice  is  gone,  but  these  blue  flowers 
reach  up  their  heads  and  grow  through  the  solid 
ice.  You  cannot  understand  how  the  campanula 
flower  grows  there,  but  don’t  you  care  to  go  and 
look  at  it?  You  will  spend  hours  looking  at  the 
mystery  of  the  thing. 

Christianity  is  that  flower  in  life.  It  grows  in 
glacier  rim;  it  grows  where  everything  hinders  it; 
it  grows  when  antagonism  opposes  it.  It  grows. 
Its  mystery  is  marvelous;  it  comes  when  the 
winter  is  on  and  grows  through  the  winter;  it  not 
only  holds  its  blooms  aloft  like  the  everlasting 
verdure  of  the  pine  trees,  but  it  grows  in  the 
drift  snows  and  grows  through  them.  Don’t  you 


62 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


know  that  Christianity  braves  the  icy  winter,  and 
burning  summers,  and  angry  burning  furnaces? 
Don’t  you  know  that  Christianity  walks  into  the 
furnace  and  through  it,  and  comes  out  with  never 
the  smell  of  fire  upon  its  garments,  much  less  a 
blister  on  the  hand  or  face?  It  is  the  super¬ 
natural  glory  of  Heaven,  and  you  must  not  think 
to  understand  it;  and  because  you  do  not  under¬ 
stand  it  is  no  sign  it  is  not  of  superlative  interest 
to  you  and  is  superlative  truth.  Rather  it  ought 
to  have  your  glad  attention;  all  the  power  and 
all  the  ardor  of  your  life  ought  to  run  out  toward 
this  thing  with  supreme  zest. 

My  second  contention  shall  be  that  if  Chris¬ 
tianity  is  mysterious,  that  is  in  no  regard  any¬ 
thing  against  its  credibility.  We  are  in  a  world 
where  mystery  employs  us.  We  are  where  we 
won’t  understand  anything  that  God  does.  If 
you  refrained  from  eating  until  you  under¬ 
stood  how  food  supplied  the  nerve  force,  you 
would  die  of  starvation;  anemia  wTould  come 
to  you  and  end  in  death:  if  you  didn’t  breathe 
until  you  understood  how  the  blood  became 
oxidized  by  the  breath,  you  would  die  of  suffoca¬ 
tion;  if  you  didn’t  use  your  eyes  until  you  under¬ 
stood  how  light  is  accessory  to  the  eyes  and  the 
eyes  to  light,  you  would  die  blind.  I  appeal 
to  this  company.  You  don’t  dally  with  anything 
else  like  you  dally  with  Christianity.  You  don’t 
deny  facts  because  they  are  mysterious.  You 
don’t  drive  Truth  out  of  doors  because  you  do 


MYSTERY  OF  CHRISTIANITY 


63 


not  understand  her  or  her  garments  or  her  lan¬ 
guage.  But  when  Christianity  comes,  and  with 
pierced  hand,  knocks  at  the  gateway  of  your 
life,  you  say,  “Your  language  is  unknown,  your 
utterance  is  jargon.”  What  I  appeal  for,  beloved, 
before  God  who  is  your  God  and  who  is  the  God 
of  life,  is,  common  fairness  with  Christianity. 
I  understand  that  Christianity  is  mysterious,  but 
that  ought  not  to  prevent  your  receiving  it.  You 
receive  every  other  mystery;  why  will  you  turn 
the  Redemption  of  the  soul  out  of  doors?  Why 
should  you  do  it?  I  claim  that  while  my  argu¬ 
ment  may  seem  to  mean  naught,  it  means  much 
when  I  say  that  when  all  other  things  are  mys¬ 
terious,  and  you  refuse  Christianity  because  it 
is  mysterious  and  receive  every  other  fact  despite 
its  mystery,  you  are  illogical,  and  your  doubt 
can  never  stand  before  a  common  bar  of  common 
justice,  much  less  before  the  uncommon  bar  of 
the  uncommon  judgment  of  an  uncommon  God. 

There  is  a  yellow  spot  in  the  eye  called  Sommer- 
ing.  It  is  called  Sommering  because  it  was  dis¬ 
covered  by  an  old  German  physician  whose  name 
the  spot  now  bears.  What  relation  that  spot 
has  to  vision  these  centuries  have  been  trying 
to  discover,  but  we  have  not  altogether  ascer¬ 
tained.  The  theory  is  that  this  yellow  spot 
sustains  the  same  relation  to  the  fact  of  sight  as 
a  yellow  glass  would  in  a  photographer’s  gallery. 
If  you  intercept  the  sun’s  rays  by  a  yellow  glass 


64 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


in  a  photographer’s  gallery,  the  room  may  be 
filled  with  light  and  heat,  but  there  is  no  actinic 
action;  so  that  there  will  be  no  effect  upon  a 
sensitized  plate,  for  chemical  action  has  been 
abolished.  Now,  the  presumption  is  that  the 
yellow  spot  in  the  eye  sustains  a  like  relation 
to  sight;  so  that  light  and  heat  may  come  in 
through  the  optic  nerve,  and  the  optic  nerve 
not  be  destroyed.  Now,  because  you  do  not 
understand  one  or  the  other  cause,  do  you  refuse 
to  receive  the  help  that  may  come  from  it?  You 
don’t.  There  is  not  a  man  or  a  woman  that  does. 

Because  you  do  not  understand  heat,  do  you 
refuse  to  warm  your  hands?  Because  you  do  not 
understand  in  what  regard  summer’s  heat  differs 
from  stove  heat,  you  don’t  refuse  it,  do  you? 
Do  you  say  that  coal  is  bottled-up  sunlight? 
You  do.  That  is  what  Stevenson,  years  and 
years  ago,  said.  I  will  ask  you  this  question: 
if  sun’s  heat  is  stored  up  in  coal,  how  does  it 
occur  that  coal  heat  and  sun  heat  don’t  act  the 
same  way?  Sun  heat  comes  in  through  windows, 
and  coal  heat  is  kept  in  by  windows.  Man, 
explain  that.  Woman,  so  voluble  in  other  things 
that  you  can  tell  them  off  like  beads  upon  a 
string,  tell  that.  You  warm  your  house  with 
coal  heat;  you  have  your  windowpanes  there  to 
shut  the  heat  in.  If  you  open  your  windows, 
your  house  is  never  warm — it  may  not  be  that, 
any  way;  but  in  any  case,  the  windows  are  for 
the  purpose  of  keeping  coal  heat  in:  but  you 


MYSTERY  OF  CHRISTIANITY 


65 


don’t  think  you  will  keep  sun  heat  out  by  having 
windows,  do  you?  The  sun  heat  comes  in  through 
the  windows,  the  same  as  if  practically  carried 
by  the  glass  in  the  windows.  You  don’t  under¬ 
stand  the  one  or  the  other. 

You  know,  if  a  stove  is  in  the  room,  and  the 
day  is  very  cold  and  the  room  is  very  large,  most 
of  us  want  to  get  pretty  near  the  stove.  But, 
you  know,  the  farther  away  from  the  stove  you 
are  the  less  heat  you  will  get.  Now,  we  are 
ninety  millions  of  miles  away  from  the  sun,  and 
the  coldest  day  that  ever  blisters  the  earth  with 
its  frigidity  you  can  stand  at  your  window  and 
hold  your  hands  nigh  the  panes,  when  the  day 
is  clear,  and  warm  your  hands,  and  feel  the 
flames  come  from  ninety  million  miles  to  warm 
you.  Do  you  explain  that?  You  don’t.  No 
more  do  the  flowers  explain  it;  but  they  lift  up 
their  hands  to  it,  and  are  warmed;  they  lift  up 
their  lips  to  it  and  are  kissed;  they  lift  up  their 
buds  to  it,  and  all  sorts  of  strange  aromas  are 
mixed  with  their  sap;  they  lift  up  their  leaves 
to  it,  and  all  sorts  of  beauteous  colors  come  and 
leave  their  impress  there  so  long  as  the  flower’s 
life  lasts.  You  do  receive  heat  from  the  sun 
even  if  you  don’t  understand  it. 

Do  you  think  there  is  a  chemist  on  the  earth 
that  could  take  a  seed  he  didn’t  know  anything 
about  and  put  it  in  his  laboratory,  and  tell  what 
sort  of  flower  would  grow  from  it,  or  what  sort 
of  cereal  it  would  produce,  or  what  sort  of  tree 


66 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


would  come  out  of  that  poor  seed,  what  sort 
of  foliage  would  be  there?  There  is  not  a  chemist 
on  the  earth  that  can  tell  a  thing  about  the 
plant  from  the  seed;  he  cannot  put  it  in  his  lab¬ 
oratory  and  explain  its  mysteries  and  marvels: 
but  I  tell  you,  no  seed,  in  all  its  relations,  is  so 
strange  as  the  unread  secrets  of  the  things  of 
Christ.  You  plant  seeds,  and  you  don’t  under¬ 
stand  how  they  fall  into  the  ground,  and  the  frost 
comes,  and  they  germinate,  but  you  plant  them 
in  the  providence  of  God,  and  by  and  by  you 
have  flowers  to  send  to  the  sick,  and  they  press 
them  to  their  lips  or  lay  them  on  their  pillow. 
So  Christianity  implanted  in  the  heart  bears 
howlers  and  fruits  of  righteousness,  and  you  don’t 
understand  how. 

You  don’t  understand  the  human  voice.  You 
do  not  understand  how  the  voice  goes  through 
solid  wire.  You  stand  at  your  telephone  with 
the  receiver  at  your  ear,  and  your  mouth  to 
the  tube,  and  talk  a  thousand  miles  away;  and 
your  voice,  poor,  impalpable  thing  that  cannot  be 
heard  upstairs,  goes  a  thousand  miles  away,  and 
they  hear  its  intimate  inflections.  Explain  it? 
You  cannot  do  it!  How  can  the  voice  get  through 
solid  wire  you  cannot  say  any  more  than  you 
can  explain  how  light  gets  through  glass. 

You  don’t  understand  why  electricity  stays  on 
wire  and  won’t  go  onto  glass ■ — why  some  things 
are  attractive  to  electricity  and  some  things  are 
not  attractive  to  it.  You  cannot  explain  one 


MYSTERY  OF  CHRISTIANITY 


67 


single  fact  of  human  life.  You  cannot  under¬ 
stand  the  potency  of  anybody’s  soul.  Do  not, 
therefore,  affect  to  turn  God  away  from  your 
door,  and  put  the  gospel  out  because  you  do 
not  understand  Christ.  I  beg  you  to  believe 
that  Christianity  is  mysterious;  but  everything 
with  which  life  has  to  do,  and  all  the  dealings 
of  your  spirit,  are  mysterious.  You  believe  in 
gravitation.  You  have  been  talking  gravitation 
all  these  years,  you  know  a  great  deal  about 
it — or  nothing;  you  say  that  Sir  Isaac  Newton 
discovered  it;  you  tell  what  you  think  of  the 
theory,  but  you  don’t  understand  one  poor 
syllable  of  the  fact.  You  know  the  sun  holds 
the  world,  yet  you  walk  between  the  sun  and 
the  world.  You  know  that  the  world  is  wheel¬ 
ing  a  thousand  miles  an  hour,  but  you  don’t 
know  why  it  doesn’t  wheel  off  its  path.  The  sun 
is  reaching  out  his  colossal  hand  to  bridle  the 
world,  bidding  it  speed  no  faster  and  no  farther, 
but  you  cannot  understand  that :  no  hand  is  visible, 
no  might  is  apparent.  Oh,  God’s  sun  is  holding 
God’s  world,  and  yours,  and  mine.  We  don’t 
understand  its  mystery. 

Now,  when  it  comes  to  the  matter  of  religion, 
people  say,  4T  don’t  understand  Christ.”  I 
think  you  don’t!  If  you  thought  you  did,  you 
would  be  colossal  in  your  folly.  Nobody  under¬ 
stands  Christ,  save  the  Christ  himself.  But  I 
will  ask  you  this  thing:  do  you  understand  one 
human  soul?  You  have  neighbored  with  your 


68 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


own  little  child  from  the  day  it  was  born  and 
cried  in  your  arms,  and  your  spirit  laughed  with 
exceeding  great  joy,  until  these  days  when  the 
lad  has  grown  to  manhood.  Do  you  understand 
that  soul?  Do  you  understand  why  little  boys 
play  with  tops  and  marbles  and  guns,  and  little 
girls  jump  ropes  and  have  dolls  and  dishes  for 
playthings?  Nobody  does.  God  is  the  only 
Person  that  does.  One  is  a  boy  and  the  other 
isn't;  one  is  a  girl  and  the  other  isn’t — that  is 
the  difference.  There  are  things  hidden  in  the 
mystery  of  the  soul  that  we  call  sex  so  bewilder¬ 
ing  as  that  nobody  has  touched  them.  Your  wise 
man  may  have  a  theory  of  heredity,  but  no  wise 
man,  no  Darwin,  no  Spencer,  can  understand 
how  it  comes  to  pass  that  qualities  of  soul  enter 
into  the  very  constitution  of  the  spirit  as  well 
as  into  brawn  and  bone  and  flesh  and  bones. 
You  do  not  understand  your  child’s  life.  Some 
parents  know  less  about  their  own  children  than 
about  any  other  thing. 

You  don’t  understand  how  life  lives,  how  the 
muscle  thrives,  do  you?  You  don’t  understand 
what  relation  physicality  has  to  metaphysicality, 
do  you?  What  relation  psychology  and  physi¬ 
ology  have?  No.  You  don’t  understand,  if  the 
silver  cord  be  loosed,  why  the  soul  goes  out 
on  the  tide  and  is  borne  by  the  waves  and  tides 
and  winds  into  the  infinite  unknown  and  comes 
back  no  more;  but  the  fact  still  lives.  I  say 
Christ  is  the  great  Unfamiliar  because  he  is  the 


MYSTERY  OF  CHRISTIANITY 


69 


emporium  of  facts:  but  so  far  as  understanding 
him,  you  understand  him  just  as  well  as  you 
understand  your  own  soul  and  the  souls  of  the 
people  about  you.  You  cannot  turn  Christ  away 
when  you  have  little  children  at  your  house.  You 
don’t  understand  Christ,  but  you  don’t  understand 
anybody  else. 

Deal  fairly  with  Christ.  My  plea  is  for  a  fair 
hearing  for  the  great  heavenly  mysteries  and 
mercies  of  human  life  and  destiny;  that  we  people, 
who  have  got  to  live,  and  who  by  and  by  must 
also  die,  that  we  look  these  great  truths  in  the 
eyes  and  do  not  wince.  If  you  wince,  still  look. 
If  your  fear  comes,  and  you  shiver  with  your 
fear,  still  look. 

Do  you  believe  in  miracles?  You  say  I  do  not 
understand  miracles;  you  understand  miracles 
just  as  much  as  you  understand  nature.  Who 
is  nature?  What  do  you  know  about  nature? 
Do  you  understand  why  it  is  that  a  person  grows 
as  big  as  he  is,  and  doesn’t  get  any  bigger?  Can 
you  answer  why  it  is  that  when  your  hand  is  cut, 
and  no  other  processes  are  used,  eventually  your 
tissue  builds  up  to  the  same  as  it  used  to  be? 
Can  you  tell  me  when  beast  flesh  or  human 
flesh  is  wounded  how  nature  tends  not  to  slay, 
but  how  all  natural  force  tends  to  heal?  God’s 
nature  is  the  great  physician.  God  is  the  Great 
Physician,  and  nature  he  hath  made  a  great 
physician  also.  Nature  is  like  a  physician  or  a 
nurse  in  whose  medicine  case  all  remedies  seem 


70 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


to  be  hid,  if  only  we  could  come  to  find  out  how 
to  use  them.  You  cannot  understand  miracle, 
I  grant  you,  but  you  cannot  understand  life.  I 
believe  in  miracle,  because  I  believe  in  God. 
When  I  sever  my  belief  in  miracle  it  will  be 
when  I  sever  my  belief  in  God.  Everything  de¬ 
pends  upon  how  big  your  God  is.  If  you  have  a 
poor,  nondescript  God,  you  will  have  no  miracle. 
If  you  have  a  great  God,  omnipotent  in  function 
and  service,  you  will  likely  have  miracle.  You 
do  not  understand  how  Christ  walked  on  the 
sea;  neither  do  you  understand  how  Napoleon 
with  his  cannon  could  walk,  and  his  troops  could 
walk,  across  the  frozen  river — you  cannot  under¬ 
stand  it,  I  say,  any  more  than  how  Christ  walked 
on  the  water,  and  I  reckon  that  He  who  built 
bridges  across  continental  seas  with  ice,  I  reckon 
he  can  build  a  highway  for  his  feet  across  the 
tossing  billows  of  Galilee.  I  tell  you,  miracle 
is  as  natural  and  legitimate  in  its  sphere  and 
relation  as  any  natural  fact;  and  when  you  assert 
or  assume  in  your  argument  that  miracle  is  un¬ 
natural,  and  when  you  declare  that  miracle  is 
mysterious  and  nature  incomplex,  you  are  not 
stating  half  the  truth. 

Some  people  make  much  about  inspiration. 
They  say  they  don’t  believe  in  “inspiration.” 
They  believe  in  the  inspiration  of  the  poet.  You 
can  explain  the  inspiration  of  the  prophet  as 
easily  as  you  can  that  of  poet,  and  easier,  because 
the  Bible  says  clearly  that  “holy  men  of  old  spake 


MYSTERY  OF  CHRISTIANITY 


71 


as  tney  were  moved  by  the  Holy  Spirit,”  and  man 
is  a  spirit  and  God  is  a  Spirit,  and  God’s  Spirit 
can  operate  on  man’s  spirit — and  he  does  it. 
YY>ur  not  understanding  things  is  no  bar  to  facts. 
What  I  plead  for  is  that  we  deal  with  such  com¬ 
mon  fairness  with  the  mysteries  of  the  salvation 
of  the  Son  of  God,  as  we  deal  with  the  mysteries 
of  the  mechanism  of  the  world  we  form  a  part 
of  and  in  whose  machinery  we  form  a  cog. 

The  mystery  of  Christianity  is  part  of  its  cre¬ 
dentials.  If  it  were  without  mystery,  I  would 
not  receive  it.  If  it  is  fresh  from  God,  it  must 
have  some  mark  of  his  handiwork  upon  it,  and 
that  mark  is  the  strange  mysteriousness  of  the 
thing.  Psychology  is  the  science  of  the  human 
soul.  Theology  is  the  science  of  the  human  soul 
as  God  redeemed  it  and  regenerated  it.  Psy¬ 
chology  deals  with  the  soul  as  it  is;  theology 
with  the  soul  as  God  is  going  to  deal  with  it. 
If  you  don’t  understand  psychology,  if  you  don’t 
understand  the  mystery  of  the  will,  if  you  don’t 
understand  the  mystery  of  intellectualization,  if 
you  don’t  understand  the  mystery  of  the  sensi¬ 
bilities,  I  want  to  know  by  what  conceivable 
logic  you  shall  think  that  you  shall  comprehend 
the  system  by  which  God  makes  a  soul  from  the 
thing  it  is  into  the  thing  it  ought  to  be.  You 
can  no  more  understand  it  than  the  bird  that 
sits  on  yonder  electric  wire  can  understand  the 
electricity  that  thrills  beneath  it.  You  can  no 
more  understand  redemption  than  you  can  under- 


72 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


stand  how  the  bird  floats  in  the  air,  but  it  does. 
Not  a  man  ever  explained  the  mystery  of  a 
bird’s  flight.  Nobody  has  ever  explained  the 
lark’s  song.  You  understand  the  mystery  of 
redemption  just  as  you  understand  the  mystery 
of  the  lark’s  song — you  understand  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other.  I  can  understand  it  as  readily 
as  I  could  believe  that  midwinter  will  blossom 
into  spring. 

I  am  girt  about  with  mystery  as  valleys  are 
hedged  about  by  the  great  mountains  whose 
breast  forms  a  shelf  where  the  winter  snows  may 
lodge  themselves.  This  mystery  is  Christianity. 
It  is  believable  because  it  is  mysterious.  Its  well 
is  so  deep  that  it  runs  down  into  the  profound 
nature  of  God.  Its  altitude  is  so  splendid  that 
it  reaches  above  eternity.  Its  breadth  is  so  vast 
that  it  reaches  every  human  soul  and  past  it: 
and  do  you  think  that  so  great  and  so  vast  a 
geography,  so  strange  and  complicated  a  topog¬ 
raphy — do  you  think  you  shall  master  it?  Never! 

The  old  Egyptians  buried  with  their  dead  a 
symbol  of  immortality  which  was  the  scarabseus; 
and  if  you  should  take  from  their  sarcophagi 
their  buried  rulers,  other  than  those  that  have 
been  taken,  you  would  see  a  scarabseus,  which 
would  mean  that  that  buried  emblem  de¬ 
clared  belief  of  the  immortality  of  him  with 
whose  dead  body  it  was  buried.  Mystery  is 
God’s  scarabseus.  He  puts  it  everywhere  he  has 
been.  He  puts  it  in  the  child’s  life;  he  puts  it 


MYSTERY  OF  CHRISTIANITY 


73 

in  the  temple  of  manhood’s  prime,  and  in  woman¬ 
hood’s  shoreless  character;  he  puts  it  in  the  path¬ 
way  of  all  the  stars;  he  writes  it  around  the 
rims  of  horizons  of  skies  and  seas;  he  puts  it  in 
the  music  of  the  ocean  and  in  the  tumultuous 
sighing  of  the  tempest.  Mystery  is  God’s 
scarabaeus:  and  it  is  in  God’s  redemption. 

God’s  redemption  is  God’s  infinite  mystery. 
Everything  else  is  finite.  The  night  with  all  its 
stars  is  finite.  God  hath  an  angel  that  can  go 
and  put  a  rim  around  the  universe.  God  is  the 
only  infinitude.  In  his  shoreless  ocean  all  islands 
sink;  all  vasty  seas,  all  continents  are  submerged. 
He  is  so  great,  so  strange,  so  unbewildered,  so 
bewildering,  that  nobody  understands  him.  An¬ 
gels  look  at  him  and  wonder.  Civilizations  and 
centuries  front  and  look  him  in  the  face  and  get 
life  and  health  and  help.  The  ages  have  touched 
the  hem  of  his  garment  and  gotten  virtue  and 
healing.  They  saw  him  go  from  a  cross  to  a 
grave,  and  from  a  grave  to  life,  and  up  to  eternal 
life.  Mystery,  mystery!  God  was  in  the  flesh; 
God  was  in  trial;  God  was  strenuous;  God  was 
puissant;  God  fabricated  life.  He  broke  death’s 
angry  doors  and  crushed  them  underneath  his 
feet,  like  the  tread  of  the  armies  of  the  eternal 
God,  and  walked  through  and  over  and  out. 
Mystery!  Don’t  think  he  can  be  fathomed  by 
our  pitiful  plumbing.  Don’t  think  you  can  wade 
even  in  his  shallows.  Don’t  think,  my  soul,  that 
you  can  measure  God’s  deeps,  or  go  to  the  mar- 


74 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


gins  of  his  seas.  Don’t  think  that  He  who  is 
“from  everlasting  to  everlasting,  God,”  that  He 
“who  taketh  up  the  hills  as  a  very  little  thing,” 
don’t  think  that  He  in  whose  hand’s  hollow  the 
seas  lie  and  writhe,  don’t  think  you  can  under¬ 
stand  him. 

He  is  the  great  companionable  God.  He  has 
infinite  excellencies  and  majestic  silences.  He  has 
splendid  audacities  and  accomplishments  for  be¬ 
wildering  us  here,  and  that  shall  bewilder  us  for¬ 
ever  hereafter.  Now,  as  we  study  him  here, 
and  comprehend  him  a  little,  and  know  a  little 
of  his  litany  of  sorrow,  and  learn  a  little  of  his 
chant  of  sublimity,  and  a  little  of  the  music  of 
redemption,  and  catch  a  strain  of  his  laughter 
that  makes  the  singing  of  heaven;  as  we  under¬ 
stand  a  little  of  it  here,  remember  this:  heaven 
is  the  room,  and  eternity  is  the  space  wherein 
we  study  the  infinite  Glory  forever;  and  with 
angels  and  the  saints  of  God  fetched  from  the 
four  quarters  of  the  centuries,  we  shall  look  at 
him,  and  love  him,  and  fall  prone  on  the  face, 
and  cry  with  our  lips  in  the  dust,  so  our  chants 
ooze  from  our  lips  with  joy  and  yet  with  venera¬ 
tion — so  shall  we  have  a  chance  to  study  him 
forever.  “Beyond  controversy,  great.”  Once 
more,  my  heart! — “ Beyond  controversy ,  great” 
Once  more,  my  heart! — “Beyond  Controversy, 
Great  Is  the  Mystery  of  God-Likeness.” 
Amen. 


PRAYER 

Thou,  O  Lord,  hast  redeemed  me,  holy  and  reverent  be 
thy  Name.  I  was  nothing  worth.  My  strength  was  as  a 
spider’s  thread.  My  wisdom  was  as  a  bottle  in  the  smoke: 
my  expectation  was  in  its  coffin:  my  way  was  come  to  the 
dizzying  edge  of  a  precipice  whose  only  onward  was  down¬ 
ward:  my  sight  was  turned  to  midnight  blackness:  “I  shall 
never  come  to  morning,”  was  my  soul  cry. 

When  lo,  O  Lord,  thou  earnest  and  didst  lift  up  mine  head. 
And  now  “my  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten.”  My  wis¬ 
dom  is  come  so  that  I  know  God  is  my  One  Need.  My 
expectation  hath  had  at  thy  hand,  resurrection;  and  my 
way  leads  up  to  the  foot  of  thy  cross  and  thence  by  easy 
stages  into  heaven.  Let  the  redeemed  of  the  Lord  say  so. 
I  will  shout  and  make  merry  in  Christ.  Amen. 


76 


V 


WHERE  IS  ZEBEDEE? 

“And  they  left  their  father  Zebedee  in  the  ship.” — Mark 
1.  SO. 

This  is  the  first  and  last  we  hear  of  Zebedee; 
and  my  inquiry  this  hour  shall  be,  Where  is 
Zebedee?  As  you  notice,  his  sons  went  with 
Christ — left  their  father,  left  the  ship,  left  the 
hired  servants,  left  all  and  followed  Christ.  And 
the  Gospels  have  much  to  say  about  these  Zebedee 
boys,  who,  fishermen  by  birth,  then  fishermen 
in  their  own  right  of  vocation,  went  away  with 
Christ.  James  Zebedee  was  the  first  apostle 
martyr,  and  John  Zebedee  was  a  writer,  and 
wrote  what  is  in  some  regards  the  most  clinging 
book  in  literature,  namely,  the  Gospel  of  John. 
The  Zebedee  boys  went  with  Him  on  the  Moun¬ 
tain  of  Transfiguration,  they  were  at  the  cross 
on  which  Christ  died.  John  Zebedee  was  the 
man  to  whom  the  dying  Christ  bequeathed  his 
mother,  and  John  Zebedee  was  the  fast  runner, 
who  when  Mary  Magdalene  came  and  said,  “The 
grave  is  empty,”  outran  logy  Peter,  and  came  to 
the  grave  and  looked  in  and  saw  not  Christ 
entombed,  but  Christ  arisen,  and  believed.  And 

77 


78 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


these  Zebedee  boys  were  together  that  great 
morning  on  Galilee’s  shore  when  Christ  stood  on 
the  beach  and  called,  “Children,  have  ye  any 
meat?”  And  John  Zebedee  looked,  when  the 
voice  came  and  thrilled  him  like  a  shock  of 
lightning  from  the  clouds,  and  said,  “It  is  the 
Lord.” 

They  were  there.  But  where  was  Zebedee? 
That  seems  a  sad  question,  does  it?  Yes,  it  is 
a  sad  question.  I  am  not  propounding  it  because 
I  think  it  a  joyous  question.  You  shall  hear  no 
clanging  of  happy  cymbals  this  morning.  Where 
is  Zebedee?  His  sons  are  with  the  Christ;  but 
did  I  read  you,  “They  left  their  father  in  the  ship 
with  the  hired  servants”?  And  Zebedee  is  busy 
fixing  the  nets,  and  says,  “Good-by,  boys.” 

“Father,  come  and  go.” 

“Lads,  I  am  too  busy.” 

Fixing  the  nets. 

And  Christ  says,  “Come  over!” 

“Too  busy,  fixing  the  nets.” 

Where  is  Zebedee? 

Where  is  Zebedee’s  wife?  She  was  with  Christ. 
She  is  called  the  mother  of  Zebedee’s  children; 
and  she  is  with  Jesus.  And  sometimes  she  was 
impertinent  and  sometimes  she  was  a  little  fool¬ 
ish;  but  I  wonder  if  there  was  ever  a  woman  born 
who  was  not  foolish  about  her  boys.  I  wonder 
if  there  was,  I  say.  I  haven’t  chanced  to  see 
her,  and  I  won’t  look  her  up.  And  so  she  wanted 
her  boys  to  have  a  place  highest  in  the  kingdom 


WHERE  IS  ZEBEDEE? 


79 


of  God,  and  said  so.  She  didn’t  keep  anything 
back.  There  was  a  touch  of  femininity  about 
her  and  she  told  her  mind  to  Christ.  But,  but, 
at  the  cross  when  the  Christ  died  there  was  the 
mother  of  Zebedee’s  children.  And  the  boys 
were  with  Christ?  Yes,  truly.  And  the  wife 
was  with  Christ?  Yes,  truly.  But  where  is 
Zebedee?  Didn’t  I  tell  you?  He  is  mending  the 
nets  in  the  boat — staying  with  the  servants;  and 
the  boat  drifts  out  over  the  sea.  What  is  Zebedee 
doing?  Mending  the  nets.  Never  looks  up, 
never  looks  up.  Busy  with  the  nets,  and  hears 
not.  And  Zebedee’s  fluttering  ship’s  sail  waning 
on  the  horizon,  and  the  last  rag  of  it  melts  out  of 
the  sky;  and  the  last  we  see  of  Zebedee  is  as  the 
first  we  saw  of  him — busy  mending  the  nets. 
Never  looks  up.  Where  is  Zebedee?  Now,  you 
remark  that  Zebedee  had  some  commendable 
points  in  his  character.  He  let  his  wife  go  to 
Christ.  He  didn’t  fuss  and  sulk.  Some  men  who 
are  mean  and  don’t  go  to  church  will  sulk  and 
fuss  and  say,  “I  am  not  at  home  much  and  I 
think  you  could  stay  with  me  when  I  am  home.” 
I  should  hate  to  be  that  mean.  If  I  let  on  to  be 
a  man,  I  wouldn’t  be  that  mean.  But  Zebedee 
didn’t  find  fault  with  his  wife  for  going  with 
Christ  and  didn’t  find  fault  with  his  sons  for 
going  with  Christ.  O  “Zebedee!  Where  are  you, 
Zebedee?”  But  he  does  not  hear;  he  is  so  busy 
mending  the  nets. 

But  did  you  think  how  much  Zebedee  missed? 


80 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Is  there  anything  wrong  with  mending  the  nets? 
Nothing.  The  nets  must  be  mended  lest  the 
fishes  escape.  Is  there  anything  wrong  with 
fishing?  Nothing.  Fishing  must  be  done  or 
people  would  go  hungry.  Is  there  anything  wrong 
with  owning  a  boat?  Not  in  the  least.  The 
best  prevention  against  anarchy  is  the  owning 
of  something.  What  is  the  wrong?  The  wrong 
is  that  he  never  was  with  Christ — in  the  boat 
with  the  nets  and  the  servants.  And  his  wife, 
she  is  hearing  Christ,  and  his  boys,  they  are  hear¬ 
ing  Christ,  and  the  father,  Zebedee— don’t  speak 
of  it  lest  we  weep.  Now,  what  was  it  Zebedee 
missed? 

Well,  he  missed  seeing  Jesus.  Friends,  if  you 
were  to  raise  this  interrogatory  with  your  heart, 
“What  man  in  history  should  I  care  most  to  see?” 
(Will  you  take  this  in  your  heart?  It  will  take 
but  a  moment.)  “What  man  in  history  should 
I  love  most  to  see — Homer,  Abraham,  Moses,  or 
Elijah,  or  Pericles,  or  Themistocles,  or  Epam- 
inondas,  or  Julius  Caesar,  or  Mark  Antony,  or 
Cato,  or  Cicero,  or  Plato,  or  Plutinus,  or  Socrates, 
or  Cromwell,  or  Lincoln,  or  Milton,  or  Shake¬ 
speare — whom  should  I  most  wish  to  see?”  And 
I  think  I  may  not  trespass  upon  the  honest 
purlieus  of  your  thinking  when  I  say  there  is  not 
a  woman  or  a  man  in  this  company  who,  if  he 
wandered  through  the  universe  of  history,  would 
not  rather  see  the  face  of  Christ.  Oh,  folks,  pretty 
soon  we  shall.  To-morrow,  to-morrow,  when  the 


WHERE  IS  ZEBEDEE? 


81 


mists  have  wiped  their  veils  from  the  face,  and 
the  blue  sky  will  not  hedge  us  in,  and  the  stars 
of  the  skies  made  to  roof  us  are  no  more,  we  shall 
see  him.  But  Zebedee  missed  seeing  Christ; 
missed  ever  seeing  him.  Why  didn’t  he  see  him? 
I  told  you,  didn’t  I?  He  was  busy  mending  the 
nets.  Busy  with  the  boats  and  with  the  servants. 
Busy  and  never  saw  him;  never  saw  the  smiling 
come  over  his  lips;  never  saw  the  wonder  of 
revelation  and  redemption;  never  saw  him.  Why, 
Zebedee,  why,  Zebedee,  didn’t  you  ever  go  and 
look  at  Christ?  Busy — nets  broken — busy?  Not 
a  bad  face;  no.  Nor  a  hard  face;  no.  Just  a 
visionless  face.  Didn’t  see  Christ?  Why,  I  would 
run  through  the  universe  a  million,  million  years 
to  see  him  just  once.  Wouldn’t  you?  Just  once. 
Oh,  folks!  Oh,  folks!  In  heaven  it  is  always 
sunup,  because  they  always  see  the  face  of 
Christ. 

“Oh,  Zebedee,  wouldn’t  you  quit  toying  with 
the  nets  to  see  the  Christ?” 

“Busy,”  he  said;  “busy.  Bread  and  butter 
got  to  be  made.” 

Zebedee  missed  seeing  Christ. 

Then  Zebedee  missed  hearing  Christ.  I  have 
been  much  interested  in  Justin  McCarthy’s 
Reminiscences.  Because  he  talks  about  so  many 
people  we  should  have  liked  to  have  seen  and 
talked  to,  and  nothing  in  his  book  impresses  me 
so  much  as  the  folks  he  saw  and  heard.  He  heard 
Gladstone  and  Disraeli,  and  heard  Wendell 


82 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Phillips  and  Beecher,  and  Thomas  Huxley  and 
Charles  Dickens,  and  Robert  Browning  and 
William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  and  heard  Gari¬ 
baldi  and  Kossuth,  and  Prince  Napoleon  and  our 
poet,  Russell  Lowell.  Wouldn’t  you  have  liked 
to  have  heard  Charles  Dickens  read  The  Child's 
Dream  of  a  Star ?  Wouldn’t  you?  And  wouldn’t 
you  have  liked  to  have  heard  “The  Death  of 
Sydney  Carton”?  Wouldn’t  you?  Wouldn’t  you 
have  liked  to  have  heard  Thackeray  read  the  four 
Georges  lectures?  Ah,  well,  let  us  not  waste 
breath  or  time.  What  is  that  compared  with 
hearing  Christ  talk?  Wouldn’t  you  have  liked 
to  have  heard  him  say  grace?  I  would  hate  to  be 
a  Christian  parent  and  leave  in  the  memory  of 
my  children  this,  that  they  never  heard  their 
father  say  grace  before  meat.  Wouldn’t  you  have 
liked  to  have  heard  Jesus  say  grace?  Wouldn’t 
you  have  liked  to  have  heard  Jesus  at  his  prayer. 
Wouldn’t  you  have  liked  to  have  heard  Jesus 
preach  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount?  Oh,  that  was 
a  big  sermon,  but  I  would  (you  would  not  think 
unkindly  of  me,  would  you?)  trade  off  a  dozen 
times  a  day  this  sermon  if  I  could  only  hear  the 
Sermon  at  the  Well.  These  sermons,  preached  to 
lonely  or  wicked  or  broken-hearted  people — just 
one  at  a  time — they  make  my  heart  itch  to  hear 
more  about.  John  Zebedee  heard  it.  Don’t 
think  that  it  says  all  the  disciples  were  gone  away 
to  the  city  to  buy  meat.  All  the  disciples  were 
not.  John  could  not  have  felt  all  that  gust  of 


WHERE  IS  ZEBEDEE? 


83 


passion  and  tin-ill  of  wonder,  and  those  wide 
winds  of  God  blowing  if  he  had  not  heard  the 
sermon.  Why,  where  was  Zebedee?  His  boy 
heard  it.  Where  was  Zebedee?  Why  didn’t 
Zebedee  hear  it?  One  of  these  mornings — it  will 
be  morning  when  he  talks,  even  if  it  is  midnight 
— one  of  these  mornings  the  voice  of  Christ  will 
speak,  not  with  the  voice  of  reverberant  thun¬ 
ders  to  shake  the  heavens,  only  a  voice,  but  I 
tell  you  it  will  go  to  the  tangled  universe  of 
death,  and  the  grave  will  hear  it.  Whose  voice 
is  it?  Oh,  it  is  Christ’s  voice.  4 ‘Everybody, 
get  up!” 

And  the  dead  shall  hear  his  voice  and  answer, 
“Here!” 

And  Zebedee  didn’t  hear  the  Christ.  Never 
heard  him. 

“Q  Zebedee,  what  are  you  doing?” 

“Mending  the  nets,*  mending  the  nets.  Bread 
and  butter.  Somebody’s  got  to  earn  the  bread 
and  butter.  Mending  the  nets.” 

Then  Zebedee  never  saw  Christ  do  miracles  of 
mercy.  Now,  some  of  these  times  we  will  see 
Christ  lift  up  his  left  hand  and  the  universe  will 
grow  black  as  ink  and  there  shall  be  no  lights 
scattered  through  the  heavens,  and  all  the  where¬ 
abouts  throughout  created  things  shall  be  as 
black  marl.  But  I  won’t  wonder  at  that.  That 
will  be  Christ  doing  away  with  things  he  brought 
into  being.  But  the  wonder  to  me  would  be  to 


84 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


see  Christ  take  a  sick  woman  by  the  hand  and 
say:  “Daughter,  you  are  so  sick  and  I  am  so 
sorry.  You  are  well  now.  Go  home  and  do  your 
own  housework;  go  on  home.”  Wouldn’t  you  have 
liked  to  have  heard  that?  Upon  my  heart  I’d 
go  while  life  lasted  to  see  that.  Wouldn’t  you  have 
liked  to  have  seen  Jesus  when  he  walked  along 
the  road  by  the  fringe  of  the  desert  and  the  leper 
came  and  looked  in  upon  the  world  from  which 
he  was  an  outcast;  and  when  Christ  came  toward 
him  he  thought  that  because  he  was  busy  he 
didn’t  see  him,  and  so  cried,  “Leper,  unclean; 
leper,  unclean,”  and  tried  to  cover  up  his  face, 
and  thought  that  Christ  would  stop  and  flee; 
but  Christ  walked  straight  toward  him  and  never 
stopped,  but  rather  hastened  his  springing  step. 
And  the  leper  called  “Leper,  unclean!  Leper, 
leper,  unclean!” 

And  Christ  said,  “I  will  cure  you,  I  will  cure 
you!” 

And  the  hand  of  God  touched  him  on  the 
cheek.  Wouldn’t  you  have  liked  to  have  seen 
that?  You  could  have.  Wouldn’t  you  have  liked 
to  have  seen  Christ  when  he  came  to  where  two 
women  had  heartbreak?  They  had  no  father, 
they  had  no  mother,  and  they  just  had  their  two 
selves  and  their  brother;  Lazarus  was  his  name. 
Women  have  got  to  have  a  man  to  love  somehow, 
if  they  have  to  borrow  him;  and  so  these  women 
had  no  husband  and  they  poured  all  that  amazing 
wealth  of  womanhood  love  on  their  brother;  and 


WHERE  IS  ZEBEDEE? 


85 


then  he  sickened;  and  the  sickness  grew  tragical, 
and  death  came  with  breakneck  haste  and  broke 
their  house  door  wide  open.  Wouldn’t  you  have 
liked  to  have  been  there  when  Christ  said:  “You 
are  so  lonesome.  Lazarus,  boy,  come  out.  Your 
sisters  want  you;  come  out  in  a  hurry.” 

“Zebedee,  where  are  you?” 

He  says,  “Busy  fixing  the  nets  broken  by  the 
fish  haul.” 

And  Zebedee  missed  seeing  the  cross.  I  think 
I  would  go  farther  to  see  the  Sphinx  than  any 
other  thing  man  has  made  on  this  planet.  I 
think  I  would.  Never  had  money  enough  to  go 
there  to  see  it  yet.  Maybe  I  won’t.  I  would 
walk  there  if  the  ocean  were  good  walking,  but 
it  is  too  wet,  I  am  told.  But  I  would  go  a  long 
way  to  see  the  Sphinx.  It  is  to  me  the  most 
fascinating  thing  man  ever  shaped  with  his  hands. 
You  would  rather  see  the  Coliseum,  would  you? 
Very  well.  You  would  rather  see  the  Cathedral 
at  Rheims,  would  you?  Very  well.  You  would 
rather  see  the  mosque  of  Saint  Sophia,  would 
you?  Very  well.  I  tell  you  what  you  would 
rather  see.  The  cross  on  the  hill  and  the  Christ 
on  the  cross. 

“But,  Zebedee,  what  are  you  doing?” 

“Mending  the  nets.  Mending  the  nets.” 

“What  is  on  the  hill?” 

“I  do  not  know.  Busy  mending  the  nets.” 

On  the  hill  is  the  cross,  and  on  the  cross  the 
Christ,  and  the  earth  shakes  and  Galilee’s  waters 


86 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


tumble,  and  for  a  moment  Zebedee  looks  up  and 
says:  “Storm  brewing,  servants;  set  the  sails. 
I  am  busy  mending  the  nets.” 

And  Zebedee  doesn’t  know  it  was  Christ  that 
shook  the  lake.  Mending  the  nets.  Missed  the 
Christ.  “O  Zebedee,  where  are  you?” 

“Busy  mending  the  nets.” 

Then  Zebedee  missed  seeing  an  empty  grave. 
I  will  not  talk  about  that  now.  Why?  Well,  I 
think  my  heart  would  stop  preaching  and  start 
singing  to  see  a  grave  where  a  Man  slept  and  a 
grave  that  couldn’t  grip  a  Man  and  hold  him. 
O  Death,  your  hands  are  so  white  with  the  frosts 
of  death,  and  your  might  is  so  mighty,  and  so 
mighty  those  sinews  on  thumb  and  fingers  that 
have  choked  the  throat  of  the  world — and  Death, 
what  ails  you  now?  And  Christ  got  up  and  left 
death  snarling.  And  Zebedee,  you  might  have 
seen  that.  What  is  he  doing?  He  doesn’t  know 
there  is  a  grave  empty  at  all.  He  is  busy  mend¬ 
ing  the  nets. 

Don’t  you  feel  like  going  and  weeping  for 
Zebedee?  What  he  did  was  not  wrong;  but  he 
missed  in  his  sense  of  proportion.  Life  is  not 
making  a  living;  life  is  making  a  life;  and  we 
are  not  to  work  for  our  board.  We  are  here  to 
make  an  immortal  soul  that  is  worth  God’s 
keeping  alive  forever.  That’s  what  life’s  for. 
What’s  life  for  Zebedee?  He  answers,  “Fishing.” 
I  could  weep  for  Zebedee,  but  I  tell  you  honestly 


WHERE  IS  ZEBEDEE? 


87 


I  haven’t  time  to  weep  for  him.  There  are  so 
many  Zebedees  around.  There  are  so  many 
Zebedees  around  now  that  it  takes  my  time  to 
weep  for  them. 

“Zebedee,  what  are  you  doing?  Your  children 
are  in  the  church  and  your  wife  is  in  the  church. 
Zebedee!  Zebedee!  Where  are  you?” 

“Oh,”  he  says.  “Busy,  busy!” 

Some  Zebedees  on  the  Sabbath  morning  go 
down  town  and  get  their  mail  and  read  it.  Now, 
that  amazes  me,  that  a  man  wouldn’t  know 
enough  to  know  that  six  days  are  enough  work 
days.  There  are  enough  days  for  business,  and 
for  the  vigor  of  business.  You  ought  to  leave 
your  mail  alone  for  one  day.  Don’t  you  business 
men  know  you  can  go  at  your  six  days’  job  with 
more  prehensile  fingers  and  with  more  sagacious 
intelligence  if  you  leave  your  job  alone  for  the  Sab¬ 
bath  day.  Oh,  where  is  Zebedee  now?  He  is  sit¬ 
ting  around  home,  smoking  and  lounging  and  taking 
it  easy.  His  wife  and  his  children  go  to  church, 
perchance,  and  when  they  go  home  he  says : 

“Well,  the  preacher  got  through,  did  he? 
Preacher  got  through.  He  quit  at  the  expiration 
of  ideas,  did  he?” 

“O  Zebedee!  What  ails  you,  Zebedee?” 

Now,  I  will  say  that  Zebedee  ought  to  belong 
to  the  Church  of  Jesus  Christ.  I  do  not  say  the 
Methodist  Church.  Don’t  you  think  it.  Lots  of 
people  ought  to  belong  to  the  Methodist  Church. 
It  would  be  good  for  them.  But  I  am  talking 


88  THE  HEALING  SHADOW 

about  the  God  Church.  Why  ought  Zebedee  to 
be  here  in  the  church?  Why?  Well,  because  he 
is  the  head  of  the  household.  It  makes  a  man 
stuck  up  to  think  that  a  woman  will  trade  her 
name  off  for  his.  I  never  think  of  that  but  that 
I  walk  big.  And  it  is  funny  what  kind  of  a  name 
a  woman  will  trade  off  for,  what  other  kind  of  a 
name,  because  the  man  is  thrown  in  with  the 
name.  By  the  laws  of  this  country  a  woman 
is  not  required  to  take  a  man’s  name,  but  you 
would  need  to  work  hard  to  have  a  nice  woman 
marry  a  man  and  have  him  take  her  name.  She 
would  say,  “My  husband  is  too  nice  a  man  to  be 
humiliated  that  way.”  You  are  pretty  nice 
women.  You  are  funny,  but  you’re  pretty  nice. 
And  I  notice  that  woman  will  not  only  trade 
off  her  last  name,  but  her  first  name.  Her  woman’s 
name  is  often  Susan  Miranda,  but  she  trades 
off  that  name  and  has  her  cards  printed,  “Mrs. 
James  G.  Thus-and-So.”  She  traded  off  her 
name  for  a  man’s  name.  And  I  am  saying  this, 
Zebedee,  when  you  give  a  name  you  ought  to 
give  Christ’s  name  to  the  family.  When  your 
name  is  worn  by  your  children  you  ought  to  see 
that  your  children  have  a  Christian  name.  What 
are  you  doing?  Mending  the  nets?  And  what 
happens?  Why,  we  don’t  remember  that  John’s 
name  is  John  Zebedee,  and  that  James’  name  is 
James  Zebedee.  And  we  say,  “What  gospel  is 
this?” 

“John’s.” 


WHERE  IS  ZEBEDEEP 


89 


“John  what?” 

“John  nothing.” 

And  so  Zebedee  lost  his  chance.  Zebedee, 
Zebedee!  Why  don’t  you,  when  you  give  your 
name  to  the  household,  give  your  household 
Christ’s  likeness.  O  Zebedee,  quit  fooling  with 
the  nets  for  a  minute. 

And  then  Zebedee  ought  to  be  with  Christ, 
because  a  man  has  some  influence  with  his  own 
family.  I  didn’t  say  much,  did  IP  I  said  some. 
And  it  is  a  poor  stick  of  a  man  that  doesn’t  find 
himself  consequential  at  home.  There  were  some 
children  of  a  preacher  in  Chicago  some  time  ago 
going  down  by  a  structure  in  the  city  yclept 
Chicago,  going  down  the  street  with  their  mother 
and  they  looked  at  a  church — it  was  just  before 
Conference,  and  it  was  a  Methodist  church,  and 
these  were  a  Methodist  preacher’s  children,  and 
they  said,  “Mama,  let’s  go  here.”  And  she 
laughed — her  husband  wasn’t  there — and  she 
laughed.  And  they  said,  “Why  mama,  why 
can’t  papa  go  there?  He  is  as  big  a  preacher  as 
there  is.  He  is  as  big  a  preacher  as  there  is.” 
O  children,  that  is  right.  If  the  preacher  doesn’t 
cut  much  figure  anywhere  else  he  is  somebody  at 
home.  And  if  a  man  is  much  a  vagabond  and 
torn  and  tattered,  his  children  look  up  and  say: 
“My  papa  said  so.  My  papa  said!”  And  I  think 
fathers  and  mothers  ought  to  have  the  sense  to 
talk  religiously  before  their  children  when  they 
know  their  children  take  their  cue  from  them. 


90 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


If  a  man  cuts  figure  in  his  family  I  tell  you  this, 
that  Zebedee  is  the  father  of  the  Zebedee  boys, 
and  he  is  the  husband  of  the  Zebedee  woman, 
and  he  ought— and  I  am  not  one  to  absolve  him 
from  his  duty — to  give  those  children  and  that 
wife  a  specimen  of  his  being  with  the  Christ. 
“O  Zebedee,  what  are  you  doing?” 

“Mending  the  nets.” 

Then  Zebedee  ought  to  be  with  Christ  because 
the  religious  function  is  the  highest  function  of 
the  soul;  and  in  the  old,  patriarchal  days,  the 
old  men  of  the  tribe  were  the  priests  of  the  tribe. 
Mark  you  this,  the  highest  function  is  the  Chris¬ 
tian  priestly  function,  standing  for  God.  Where 
is  Zebedee?  And  my  heart  has  ached  so  for 
Zebedee,  and  my  lips  and  my  heart  have  con¬ 
spired  to  pray  for  Zebedee. 

“Zebedee,  where  are  you?  Why  aren’t  you  at 
church,  Zebedee?  Why  don’t  you  pray,  Zebedee? 
You  want  your  wife  to  be  a  Christian.  I  think 
ninety-nine  men  out  of  the  one  hundred  would 
marry  a  Christian  woman  in  preference  to  an  un- 
Christian  woman.  Where  is  your  logic,  Zebedee? 
Zebedee!  Zebedee!  Some  one  calling  you?  Oh, 
Zebedee!” 

“I  am  Zebedee!” 

“What  are  you  doing,  Zebedee?” 

“Busy  making  ends  meet.” 

“Where  is  your  wife,  Zebedee?” 

“She  has  gone  to  church  to  hear  Christ  preach, 
I  reckon.  She  does  often.” 


WHERE  IS  ZEBEDEE? 


91 


And  he  catches  up  the  torn  thread  of  the  torn 
net  and  ties  it  with  deft  fingers. 

“Say,  Zebedee,  where  are  your  boys — where’s 
Jim  and  where’s  John?” 

“Oh,  they  have  gone  to  church  to  hear  Christ 
preach.” 

“Zebedee,  Brother  Zebedee,  why  aren’t  you  at 
church.” 

“Oh,  I  am  busy  mending  the  nets.” 

“0  Zebedee,  Zebedee,  Zebedee!  Where  are  you, 
Zebedee?” 

Prayer:  O  God,  call  Zebedee  this  morning — 
call  him  not  away  from  his  nets,  but  call  him 
away  with  his  nets — call  him,  O  Christ.  Then  let 
Zebedee  come  to  the  Christ  with  his  wife  on  his 
arm  and  with  his  children  by  him.  Let  Zebedee 
and  the  mother  of  Zebedee’s  children  and  the 
children  of  Zebedee  all  sit  in  the  house  of  the 
Lord  together,  for  Christ’s  sake.  Amen. 


PRAYER 

Thou  who  art  the  Lord  of  all  worlds  and  all  souls,  the 
King  of  angels  and  Saviour  of  lost  men,  we  reverently  bow 
down  before  thee.  This  earth  is  too  much  for  us.  We 
can  neither  save  ourselves  nor  it.  We  should  surely  lose 
hope  but  for  the  Lord  God  Almighty.  He  is  our  Refuge 
and  our  Strength.  We  believe  in  him  and  his  willingness 
and  ability.  The  Christ  who  said  “All  power  in  heaven 
and  earth”  was  in  his  hands  is  competent,  we  reverently 
believe,  to  save  men  and  cities  and  nations  with  an  ever¬ 
lasting  salvation.  Our  appeal  is  to  Christ.  We  have  no¬ 
where  else  to  go  nor  need  to  go  otherwheres. 

Strengthen  our  faith.  Stimulate  our  zeal.  Direct  our 
endeavors.  Sanctify  our  activities  and  make  us  to  be  very 
sure  of  God  and,  so,  very  hopeful  for  men. 

Thou  Saviour  to  the  uttermost,  make  great  inroads  on  the 
lost.  Amen. 


92 


VI 


THE  CITY  AND  JESUS  CHRIST 

“And  came  into  his  own  city.” — Matt.  9.  1. 

We  are  Clirist-ians,  for  so  the  Antiochian  jester 
pronounced  the  name  of  the  followers  of  Christ. 
We  cling  to  the  nickname.  The  wit  of  Antioch 
— no  man  knows  his  name,  but  who  does  not 
know  the  name  of  Christ  and  his  followers?  The 
jester  with  his  supercilious  smile  has  withered 
like  a  leaf  in  the  flame;  and  Christ  rises  with  his 
shepherd’s  crook  and  cross  the  Shepherd  of  Man¬ 
kind. 

In  his  high  name  we  meet  this  hour  with  bub¬ 
bling  laughter  and  adoration  in  our  heart  and 
on  our  lips.  We  speak;  but  our  words  are  not 
labial  sounds;  they  are  phrasing  of  our  brain 
and  heart — both  brain  and  heart  being  charged 
with  the  Christ  thought  and  the  Christ  heart. 

Whatever  we  do  or  look  upon  or  pray  over  it 
is  in  the  light  of  and  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 
Christ,  whose  bondsmen  we  be.  We  do  approach 
everything  as  Christians  first.  The  educator  who 
sneeringly  asked,  “Is  there  a  Christian  chem¬ 
istry?”  had  he  known  more  would  have  saved 
his  breath.  There  is  a  Christian  chemistry,  just 

as  there  is  a  Christian  everything.  Christ  invades 

93 


94 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


all  shores  of  thought,  and  provinces  of  human 
investigation.  He  is  all  provinces. 

Perhaps  here  is  our  trouble  in  discussing  the 
city.  We  think  of  it,  talk  of  it,  as  “the  city,” 
whereas  what  we  have  is  in  actuality  “Christ’s 
City.”  How  that  changes  the  furrows  we  plow 
across  the  burning  marl  of  a  great  metropolis! 
“The  City”  might  be  hopeless,  but  “Christ’s 
City”  is  hopeful.  Always  hope  when  the  name 
of  Christ  intrudes. 

So  we  are  not  here  as  a  debating  society  of 
sociologists.  Frequently,  and  very  often,  and 
almost  always,  it  is  the  sociologist’s  city  we  con¬ 
front.  That  mars  our  attitude.  Their  view  of 
society  is  hopeless.  They  hold  a  cloud  of  smoke 
over  the  town  site  so  the  sun  has  little  function. 
That  is  no  slur  on  the  sociologist;  but  he  has  a 
passion  for  blazing  a  trail.  He  thinks  he  has  a 
new  thing.  He  puts  the  halter  on  the  city  as  if 
it  were  a  calf  and  leads  it  into  his  stall.  He  spec¬ 
ulates,  and  woe  to  the  city  which  denies  the 
validity  of  his  speculation.  I  know  the  social 
workers  in  America  fairly  well  for  the  past  twenty- 
five  years.  I  have  labored  in  their  bailiwicks. 
I  have  preached  without  their  permission  in  their 
purlieus  and  always  without  their  sanction. 
They  have  been  na'ive  in  their  egoism  (I  do  not 
say  egotism)  and  have  held  in  suspicion  the 
minister  of  Christ  and  the  ministry  of  Christ  in 
such  wise  that  it  would  have  been  irritating  had 
it  not  been  downright  funny.  The  social  worker 


THE  CITY  AND  JESUS  CHRIST  95 


lias  been  invited  by  preachers  and  laymen  to 
enlighten  them,  and,  nothing  lacking  or  doubting, 
has  enlightened  them  with  superior  air  and 
Ultima  Thule  dictum  and  settles  all  “city  prob¬ 
lems”  (as  he  always  denominates  them),  and 
what  was  scarcely  less  than  tragedy  settled  the 
questions  so  that  only  the  unwary  and  unwise 
or  overeager  minister  dare  even  ask  a  question. 
Whenever  he  did,  he  was  overlooked  in  the  reply 
as  in  the  wide  pity  that  anyone  should  even 
attempt  to  masticate  the  cud  he  was  given  to 
swallow  whole.  I  do  not  speak  at  random.  I 
know  whereof  I  speak.  For  twenty -one  years 
now  I  have  been  a  city  man  dwelling  in  the  sub¬ 
metropolis  of  America  and  lesser  cities.  Any 
number  of  times  I  heard  the  sociological  worker 
(and  practically  all  the  nonchurch  social  workers 
are  sociologically  sterilized)  effervesce  in  dreary 
fatalism  on  heredity  and  environment  and  dull¬ 
eyed  atheism,  and  gave  it  as  the  last  word  to  be 
pronounced,  and  then  have  heard  jejune  Chris¬ 
tians — men  and  women  or  preachers — teach  it  in 
Sunday  school  as  if  it  were  the  oracles  of  God. 
I  have  heard  them  get  off  genetics  and  eugenics 
as  though  they  were  talking  sanity,  whereas  they 
were  only  talking  stock-breeding,  whose  science  is 
not  applicable  to  men.  Cattle  are  beasts,  lovely 
beasts;  man  has  a  soul,  a  lovely  demoniacal, 
angelic,  gigantic  human  soul.  Immortality  makes 
all  the  difference.  Most  city  specialists  I  have 
encountered  were  so  impressed  with  the  city 


96 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


problems  (again  so  called)  that  they  were  mortally 
afraid  of  the  city.  They  could  prognose,  dose, 
but  not  understand  or  heal. 

We  Methodists  study  the  city  in  the  light  of 
Christ  and  in  the  name  of  Christ.  This  is  not 
a  fatalistic  business.  It  is  a  glorious,  victorious 
business.  I  could  not  pose  as  a  city  authority 
because  I  have  preached  in  the  city  and  secured 
a  hearing  for  my  preaching.  You  must  fail  in 
the  city  ministry  to  really  become  an  expert. 
I  know  men  who  absolutely  failed  in  getting  the 
heeding  or  a  hearing  for  their  ministry  who  now 
go  out  as  eventual  enlighteners,  men  who  never 
had  a  congregation  in  a  city  little  or  big,  who 
now  go  about  telling  all  the  preachers  how  to  get 
a  crowd. 

So,  I  shall  speak  as  a  man  who  has  lived  in  the 
city  twenty-one  years,  has  loved  the  city,  been 
battered  by  the  city,  mauled  by  the  city,  but 
not  mutilated  by  it  beyond  recognition.  I  am 
Christ’s  city  man,  being  Christocentric  in  all  my 
thought,  relation,  beliefs,  even  prejudices. 

The  first  thing  to  inquire  of  any  man  or  woman 
discussing  the  city  matter  is — are  you  head  first 
and  heart  first  a  Christian?  If  not,  you  have  no 
bearing  on  our  deliberations. 

The  city  and  Jesus  Christ — that  has  light  and 
leading.  The  leaden  smoke  that  clouds  the  city 
is  splintered  into  a  thousand  rainbows.  The 
thunder  of  the  city  and  its  wild  Niagara  do  but 
as  Niagara  does  when  the  sun  is  shining — give 


THE  CITY  AND  JESUS  CHRIST  97 


theme  for  rainbows;  and  the  tumult  lifts  itself 
into  orchestral  majesties. 

My  observations  as  a  city  preacher  are: 

Observation  One.  There  is  no  city  gender .  We 
are  so  persistently  told  that  the  city  is  one  thing 
and  the  country  is  another  thing.  In  a  word, 
that  there  are  two  genders,  a  city  gender  and  a 
country  gender,  which  is  not  what  Christ  wrote 
down  in  his  grammar  of  gender.  He  announced 
that  there  was  one  gender  and  that  was  the 
human  gender.  4 ‘Jesus  Christ  by  the  grace  of 
God  tasted  death,  for  every  man.”  “God  so 
loved  the  world  that  he  gave  his  only  begotten 
Son,  that  whosoever.  .  .  .”  Thus  we  have  it 
“the  every-man  gender”  and  “the  whosoever 
gender”;  and  these  two  genders  are  one  in  faith 
in  Christ.  This  is  a  fundamental  matter.  Folks 
are  folks,  in  country  or  city.  Christ  after  the 
flock  not  country  man  or  village  man,  or  city 
man,  Christ  just  after  the  human  flock.  He 
was  at  home  with  folks.  His  preaching  was  not 
city  preaching  nor  country  preaching.  It  was 
human-divine  preaching  and  addressed  to  the 
human  race,  which  he  greatly  loved  and  loves 
greatly  yet  and  will  love  greatly  always.  This 
love  of  Jesus  for  the  human  race  is  a  beautiful, 
deathless  affection.  I  deem  nothing  more  detri¬ 
mental  to  effective  city  Christian  work  than  a 
notion  that  the  city  people  are  different  from 
country  people.  They  are  just  people.  That  is  all 
God  has.  Jonah,  of  the  Nineveh  Circuit,  was  a 


98 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


country  preacher  but  seemed  to  know  the  vernac¬ 
ular  of  the  metropolis.  Practically  all  the  leading 
city  pulpits  now  are  occupied  by  country  preach¬ 
ers.  There  is  just  preacher.  I  wish  we  could 
kill  the  notion  and  let  no  one  know  where  it  is 
buried,  for  some  brother  will  be  bound  to  go  and 
exhume  the  corpse  if  he  could  find  the  grave. 
I  have  preached  in  country  and  city,  and  nowhere 
without  hearing,  and  have  not  had  two  attitudes 
— a  city  attitude  and  a  country  attitude — but 
just  one  attitude  toward  humanity  redeemed  by 
Christ.  Christ  wept  over  the  city,  they  say. 
But  they  would  do  well  to  recall  how  he  laughed 
over  it  and  laughed  with  it.  You  will  know  Jesus 
wept  over  the  world  and  died  for  the  world  but 
broke  an  alabaster  box  of  laughter  into  the 
world’s  heart  and  on  the  world’s  head.  The 
world  will  never  get  over  that  holy  chrism.  The 
weeping  of  Jesus  was  not  confined  to  the  city. 
He  wept  over  sin,  not  city  sin,  but  sin.  Sin 
caused  the  heart-break  of  God. 

The  city  has  more  folks  in  a  lump  than  the 
country,  that  is  all.  The  city  sins  and  the  country 
sins,  and  neither  country  nor  city  sinner,  just 
sinners.  The  city  has  folks,  and  that  is  all  the 
world  has.  We  approach  the  city,  and  we  Method¬ 
ists  always  approach  the  city  as  Christ’s  city 
filled  with  the  lost  sheep  of  the  House  of  Israel. 
Plenty  of  the  lost  and,  in  the  light  of  Christ, 
plenty  to  be  found  and  plenty  of  the  found. 

Observation  Two.  The  city  has  not  tribality  or 


THE  CITY  AND  JESUS  CHRIST 


99 


nationality ,  but  only  humanity.  This  consideration 
too  is  fundamental.  We  have  approached  the 
city  as  polyglotal  which  by  the  dictionary  is 
accurate,  but  by  the  Bible  of  Christ  is  inaccurate. 
Pentecost  was  notable  because  all  sorts,  all  tribal 
associations,  were  present  in  the  audiences.  They 
all  heard  the  wonderful  works  of  God.  In  this 
Pentecost  is  our  precedent,  if  we  dote  on  pre¬ 
cedents.  Greeks  and  dwellers  in  Mesopotamia, 
Barbarians,  Cythians,  bond  and  free — these  are  all 
out  in  God’s  big  pasture,  the  lost  sheep,  this  big 
world’s  lost  sheep. 

For  many  years,  as  some  here  present  will 
bear  witness  if  they  care  to  recall  the  item,  this 
speaker  has  held  that  the  right  way  to  make 
foreigners  Americans  and  Christians  was  by  bring¬ 
ing  them  Christ  in  the  American  vernacular.  He 
held  then  and  now  that  the  foreign  block  could 
not  be  smashed  while  we  preached  with  the 
fatalism  of  foreign  speech.  Not  the  speech  the 
people  were  born  to  but  the  speech  to  which  they 
immigrated  they  should  use.  I  am  no  new  arrival 
in  this  doctrine.  I  have  not  been  lauded  by 
experts  who  dote  on  reaching  men  through  their 
foreign  tongue.  Now,  at  last,  it  is  shown  that 
this  attitude  was  not  foolish  and  needs  no  re¬ 
vision.  We  have  been  perplexed  by  the  jargon 
of  foreign  tongues  and  then  dismayed  by  the 
babble,  and  strangely  harked  back  to  Babel, 
whereas  it  was  not  Babel  but  Pentecost. 

The  city  has  just  folks — not  foreign  folks,  or 


100 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


native  American  folks,  or  black  folks,  or  white 
folks,  or  Orientals,  or  aboriginals.  When  this 
United  States  amassed  an  incredible  army  it  did 
not  raise  a  city  army  and  a  country  army  and 
an  Irish-American  Army,  and  a  Polish  Army,  nor 
an  English-American  Army,  nor  yet  a  Jewish- 
American  Army.  It  calmly  drafted  an  American 
army  and  proceeded  to  inoculate  the  whole  mass 
with  American  language  and  military  training. 
Heed  this  similitude.  Americanize  the  city  crowd 
in  the  name  of  its  human  homogeneity  and  not 
in  the  name  of  its  tribal  heterogeneity.  Com¬ 
pulsory  teaching  and  learning  of  the  American 
speech  should  be  demanded  of  everyone  staying 
on  the  American  continent.  The  foreigner  wants 
his  mother  tongue  and  to  be  coaxed  by  it,  but  he 
gets  a  job  in  American  and  can  get  Christ  by  the 
same  speech  and  in  the  same  way.  if  we  were 
now  without  foreign-speaking  Methodism  in  Amer¬ 
ica,  we  should  be  better  off  and  the  world  would 
be  better  off.  They  will  deny  this,  but,  others  are 
better  judges  of  this  matter  than  themselves 
because  they  speak  from  within  a  group  and  we 
speak  outside  of  all  groups  looking  at  the  entirety 
and  not  as  the  tribality.  “One  Lord,  one  faith, 
one  baptism,”  and  now  in  America  and  the 
American  city  we  should  add  “One  language.” 
We  need  unification.  Varied  languages  make  for 
disintegration;  one  language  makes  for  integra¬ 
tion.  The  foreigner  must  be  appealed  to  as  the 
child  of  the  heavenly  Father.  Do  not  bother 


THE  CITY  AND  JESUS  CHRIST  101 


him  or  ourselves  about  his  earthly  fathers.  He 
knows  too  much  and  too  well  of  that.  But  as 
a  child  of  God  he  has  need  of  enlightenment  and 
good  news.  He  needs  the  gospel.  The  great 
substrata  of  life  are  always  the  same.  Chris¬ 
tianity  and  Christ  deal  with  the  universal  sub¬ 
strata.  As  a  man,  not  as  a  foreign  man,  as  a  man, 
just  as  a  man,  attack  him  so  in  the  name  of  the 
Christ  who  was  God-Man. 

But  the  reply  is,  “We  shall  not  reach  him  so.” 
The  apt  rejoinder  to  that  reply  is,  “We  have  not 
reached  him  not  so.  The  answer  is  tit  for  tat  but 
is  truthful.  We  have  not  succeeded  widely  by 
the  many -language  route;  let  us  try  the  one- 
language  way.  We  have  not  succeeded  so  admir¬ 
ably  in  the  old  way  that  we  can  afford  to  be 
perky  in  our  championship  of  that  way,  much 
less  desire  to  persist  in  it.  Strike  for  the  city 
people  as  a  people  of  God  and  for  God  in  the 
American  speech  which  they  have  learned  or 
should  learn  more  than  ever  before  and  let  the 
converts  become  members  of  the  American  church, 
which  is  what  we  do  in  our  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church  all  over  America,  thank  God. 

In  a  Conference  one  of  our  leading  preachers 
was  French,  one  was  Italian,  another  Irish, 
another  Scotch,  another  English,  another  German, 
another  Scandinavian,  another  Swede,  and  Manx, 
and  a  Jew.  You  could  have  changed  a  Pente¬ 
costal  heterogeneity  into  Pentecostal  homogeneity 
in  that  Conference.  It  is  so  we  shall  thus  outrun 


102 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


all  our  past  deeds.  All  hail  to  one  way  to  all 
folks  in  the  interest  of  America  and  the  Chris¬ 
tianization  of  the  unsaved. 

Observation  Three.  We  must  not  be  scared  of 
the  city.  The  city  is  terrible  but  sublime.  I 
cannot  refrain  from  the  solemn  glory  I  myself 
have  had  in  the  turbulence  of  a  great  city.  My 
forebears  were  vikings  and  are  buried  in  the 
stormy  North  Atlantic.  It  may  be  their  fight  is 
in  my  blood  that  I,  a  country  man,  luxuriate  in 
the  city  riot.  I  know  its  fury  and  fearfulness; 
I  know  its  anarchy  and  murder;  I  know  its  squalor, 
filth,  and  perfidy;  I  know  its  lust  and  lechery,  but 
I  know  too  that  for  all  these  things  the  Christ 
is  equal  and  for  all  these  he  only  is  the  only  cure. 
I  have  in  passing  from  the  Labrador  out  into  the 
upper  Atlantic  seen  the  wrinkled  waves  of  the 
sea  pass  along  the  great  ocean  like  sweaty  tigers 
with  waves  perhaps  a  mile  from  crest  to  crest, 
then  lightly  spring  over  the  vessel’s  deck  in 
labyrinth  of  foam  and  fury,  and  I  was  not  scared; 
I  was  elated.  They  were  swift  with  death  but  wild 
with  life.  The  glory  of  it  rollicked  as  high  as  the 
sky  above  the  peril  of  it. 

So  in  the  city.  Its  fury,  its  abandon,  its  un¬ 
seemliness,  its  carousing,  its  sleeplessness,  its 
polyglotal  trumpetry,  its  assassins’  knife — its 
everything  but  lethargy  summons  the  Christ. 
He  is  not  afraid  of  the  howling  tempests  of  this 
arctic  sea.  He  is  invited  by  it.  He  is  not  afraid 
of  the  city;  he  is  invited  by  it.  Christians,  con- 


THE  CITY  AND  JESUS  CHRIST  103 


suit  Jesus  Christ,  and  not  those  fatalists  who 
have  no  way  out  but  a  soup  kitchen  and  an 
amusement  hall. 

Observation  Four.  The  city  is  not  to  he  dealt 
with  on  the  line  of  its  social  or  industrial  cleavage 
any  more  than  on  the  line  of  its  tribal  cleavages . 
In  my  observation  Christian  work  has  been 
mutilated  and  nearly  slain  in  many  cities  by  the 
workers  thinking  they  must  pander  to  class 
prejudice  in  order  to  invite  people  to  Christ. 
The  chief  company  of  social  workers  in  a  city 
think  they  must  become  labor  agitators  and 
strike  promoters  and  raise  shibboleths  of  class  and 
mass,  laborer  and  capitalist,  employer  and  em¬ 
ployee,  and  advocate  socialism  and  become  bol¬ 
shevistic  so  as  to  get  the  discordant  types  to 
Jesus.  Said  a  Methodist  preacher  in  my  city 
once:  “I  do  not  dare  to  say  I  am  a  Methodist 
in  my  church.  The  people  would  not  listen  to 
me.”  That  preacher  was  near  a  fool.  He  was  a 
disciple  of  I  know  not  what — not  of  Jesus  of 
Nazareth.  His  belief  has  no  inculcation  for  a 
lover  of  Christ  and  a  believer  in  Christ. 

As  between  the  dollar  and  the  man,  Christianity 
is  always  for  the  man.  But  Christianity  is  dead 
against  anarchism.  Let  it  say  that.  Christianity 
is  against  any  organization  that  in  the  name  of 
labor  or  incendiarism  calls  American  citizens  scabs 
and  denies  them  the  right  to  earn  their  living 
when  and  how  and  where  they  will  if  competent, 
and  no  man  or  organization  must  deny  them. 


104 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Under  the  Constitution  no  foreigner  or  citizen 
may  deny  to  any  American  citizen  the  right  to 
get  and  keep  a  job.  Let  the  church  say  that. 
We  are  for  all  men’s  rights,  not  for  a  few  men’s 
rights  as  against  all  men’s  rights.  Let  the  call  of 
the  Methodist  Church  be  preached  in  the  equality 
of  man  as  man  in  Christ  and  do  to  the  death 
the  making  of  classes  which  is  unrepublican  and 
un-Christian.  Any  institution  which  not  wittingly 
but  actually  tends  to  make  classes,  which  in 
America  is  inexcusable  and  ought  not  to  be 
tolerated.  The  Methodist  Church  makes  all  one 
in  Christ  Jesus. 

Observation  Five.  The  gospel  of  Jesus  Christ 
is  our  preachment.  In  city  work  specialists  have 
often  insisted  on  things  which  were  no  gospel 
and  that  these  must  be  dealt  with  to  bring  men 
to  God.  They  were  wrong.  They  reply,  “They 
will  listen  to  no  gospel.”  Try  them.  The  masses 
of  people  since  Jesus  nowhere  wildly  took  Christ 
to  their  hearts.  The  kingdom  of  God  has  not 
been  colonized.  Christ  is  decent,  Christ  is  clean. 
That  is  not  popular  with  very  many.  But  that 
is  our  only  charter  to  preach  Christ.  He  is  their 
Hope  and  their  Saviour.  A  company  of  country 
preachers  freshly  picked  from  the  country  bushes 
or  pulled  up  from  country  fields,  and  with  their 
country  freckles  on  their  faces  and  on  their  hands, 
and  no  indoctrination  in  socialism  and  its  con¬ 
comitants  and  embellishments,  but  just  robust 
believers  in  the  redemption  of  Christ,  will  do 


THE  CITY  AND  JESUS  CHRIST  105 


more  to  bring  the  city  to  its  Lord  than  all  the 
specialists  ever  trained  in  the  world.  The  espe¬ 
cially  trained  for  the  city  are  in  deadly  peril  of 
knowing  so  much  about  what  not  to  do  that 
they  never  rise  up  and  do  the  brawny  things 
they  ought  to  do. 

An  article  in  our  church  papers  to  the  effect 
that  the  Good-Will  Industries  proved  the  church 
to  be  practical  should  have  been  censored.  That 
type  of  talk  is  harmful  all  day  long  and  all  night 
long.  The  Good-Will  Industries  are  good  but 
are  purely  a  minor  good.  The  great  Good-Will 
Industry  and  the  great  practicality  in  the  Church 
of  God  is  bringing  the  Christ  to  the  city  and 
country  and  making  men  familiar  with  the  new 
life  in  God  so  that  people  in  country  and  city 
alike  shall  have  knowledge  of  the  profound 
music  and  might  of  redemption. 

Christ  was  slain  at  a  city,  but  those  who  brought 
him  to  his  death  were  not  city  people.  City  and 
country  wicked  people  conspired  to  kill  God. 
But  he  refused  to  be  held  by  the  grave  they 
thrust  him  into.  But  for  man  universal  he  tasted 
death,  and  for  man  universal  he  rose  again  from 
the  dead,  and  to  man  universal  the  living  Christ 
proffers  redemption,  and  to  saved  men  he  offers 
a  habitation  in  the  City  of  God.  And  the  Land 
of  Beulah  lies  around  about  Jerusalem  the  Golden. 
For  which  all  thanks  be  unto  our  God. 


PRAYER 


My  blessed  heavenly  Father,  thou  art  the  God  and  Father 
of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  the  Father  of  Glory,  thou  art 
my  heavenly  and  earthly  Father.  I  think  of  that  and  feel 
as  if  I  were  holden  in  the  arms  of  the  sunlight.  And  I  am. 
The  arms  of  the  Infinite  Sunrise  hold  me  to  the  Father-breast. 

How  am  I  blest!  How  my  heart  beats  wild  as  the  heart 
of  a  happy  bird  and  wilder  still  like  the  heart  of  an  archangel! 

I  have  been  redeemed,  which  the  archangel  has  not.  I 
am  blest  beyond  him.  Thy  cross  has  set  me  above  prin¬ 
cipalities  and  powers  even  in  heavenly  places  in  Christ  Jesus. 

My  life  has  been  motherless  and  much  time  fatherless, 
but,  according  to  thy  Word,  the  Lord  took  me  up.  How 
true  have  I  found  that  gracious  Fatherly  promise.  When  thy 
mother  and  father  forsake  thee  (when  death  takes  them 
across  his  knee  and  breaks  them  like  a  sword)  then  the  Lord 
will  take  thee  up.  I  have  found  how  greatly  true  that 
promise  was — “shall  take  thee  up.”  Rightly  spoken,  “take 
thee  up.”  I  have  been  taken  up  of  the  heavenly  Father. 
Up  and  set  in  the  crest  of  the  dome  of  the  sky,  up  where 
I  look  down  on  the  mountain  summits,  taken  up  where 

“I  survey  the  wondrous  cross 

On  which  the  Prince  of  Glory  died,” 

taken  up  where  nothing  counts  but  God — his  providence, 
his  far-going  providings,  even  eternal  life. 

I  being  thus  attended,  thus  led,  thus  loved  by  my  heavenly 
Father,  I  wonder  and  adore  and  pray  that  this  New  Year 
I  may  live  and  move  and  have  my  being  in  thee,  thereby 
serving  all  interests  terrestrial  and  celestial. 

Glory  be  to  the  Father  and  to  the  Son  and  the  Holy  Spirit 
in  Christ.  Amen. 


106 


VII 


HEADED  INTO  SPRING 

“For,  lo,  the  winter  is  past,  the  rain  is  over  and  gone; 
the  flowers  appear  on  the  earth;  the  time  of  the  singing  of 
birds  is  come.” — The  Song  of  Solomon  2.  11,  12. 

“Behold  the  fig  tree,  and  the  trees;  when  they  now  shoot 
forth,  ye  see  and  know  of  your  own  selves  that  summer  is 
now  nigh  at  hand.” — Luke  21.  29,  30. 

Winter  is  on  the  road  to  spring.  Some  think 
it  a  surly  road.  I  do  not.  A  primrose  road  to 
spring  were  not  as  engaging  to  my  heart  as  a 
frozen,  icicled,  craggy  way  angered  over  by  strong 
winds  that  never  take  the  iron  trumpets  from 
their  lips.  God  is  as  fond  of  contrast  as  Macaulay. 
He  knows  to  make  the  most  of  antitheses.  He  has 
lands  where  envious  summer  pants  and  seeks 
inviting  shade  to  wipe  the  sweat  from  its  salty 
face.  It  is  one  phase  of  God’s  infinite  variety. 
He  never  stales.  He  will  not  have  all  wild  violets 
or  wild  roses.  He  will  have  some  wild  fleurs- 
de-lis  and  purple  asters  and  orchids  growing  out 
of  decaying  bark  on  tropic  trees  to  dawdle  with 
the  wind. 

Yet  is  not  this  summerland  unswept  of  any 
gelid  winter  gale.  God  prefers,  may  I  say, 

107 


108 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


summer  and  winter.  He  has  an  arctic  all-winter 
and  a  tropic  all-summer,  and  wTild  with  poetry 
and  quest  he  has  part-winter  and  part-summer. 

Winter  is  not  a  parenthesis  between  fall  and 
spring.  It  is  an  argument  for  spring.  Winter 
makes  men  know  they  need  the  spring. 

There  we  have  it.  This  is  the  lovely  logic  of 
wintry  weather  to  make  men  know  that  they  need 
the  spring.  It  is  a  haunting  logic.  For  myself 
I  would  not  evade  winter.  If  I  could  omit  the 
winter  threnody  piled-high  with  drifts  of  snow 
and  sword-edge  winds,  I  would  not.  I  like  the 
racket  of  the  wintry  winds.  They  make  so  much 
of  their  roadway  across  a  world  naked  of  foliage 
so  that  the  winds  travel  light  like  an  eagle  with 
rested  wings,  and  boom  like  a  wild  surf  on  a 
desolate  seashore,  whose  only  inhabitant  is  a 
wrecked  ship.  Winter  is  a  bludgeon  as  ructious 
as  a  storm  wind.  It  wields  its  shelalah  with  a 
primitive  elation  as  if  its  lifetime  were  a  wake. 
Winter  is  ruthless  and  sometimes  sullen  and 
murderous.  The  wild  winter  North  has  gulped 
ten  thousand  summers  down  nor  left  a  froth  of 
sunshine  on  its  lips. 

Everlasting  winter  would  murder  hope.  It  has 
room  for  trumpets  and  viols  and  the  arctic-whine 
of  violins,  but  never  a  rift  of  sunshine  nor  of 
bobolink’s  lyric  nor  the  meadow  lark’s  song. 

Winter’s  notion  of  poetry  is  tragical.  It  knows 
nothing  of  comedy.  Its  laughter  was  frozen  on 
its  lips  long  ago.  An  icicle  has  no  smile  in  it. 


HEADED  INTO  SPRING 


109 


When  the  sun  makes  it  agleam  with  diamonds 
its  makeshift  for  smiling  makes  a  body  shiver 
like  a  maniac’s  laughter.  Its  notion  of  play  and 
fun  is  to  freeze  the  cattle  on  the  plains  and  leave 
the  wild  buffalo  in  the  mountains  a  herd  of  frozen 
death  still  standing  frozen  to  the  ground.  Plainly, 
winter  lacks  heart.  It  has  plenty  of  backbone; 
but  backbone,  while  necessary  in  man  or  woman 
or  policy,  should  not  be  on  the  outside.  It  looks 
better  concealed,  and  I  should  imagine  would 
travel  better.  And  external  backbone  would  be 
subject  to  too  many  extra  and  unnecessary  knocks 
and  it  gets  enough  where  it  is  located.  Frankly, 
the  trouble  with  winter  is  that  it  is  all  backbone. 
It  is  fleshless,  insensate,  with  neither  a  breast  to 
be  leaned  on  nor  a  heart  to  love  and  ache,  and, 
if  need  be  break,  nor  any  kindly  hand  to  fondle 
and  caress  like  a  sea-wave  on  a  sunny  shore  half 
asleep. 

If  winter  were  our  terrestrial  destination,  we 
should  die  of  hunger.  Gaunt  want  would  beckon 
us  to  our  graves,  but  we  could  not  stumble  so 
far.  We  would  tumble  down  dead  on  the  gravel 
hard  road  and  no  hand  would  be  nigh  to  afford 
us  burial.  Winter  is  not  an  end.  It  is  in  transit. 
It  is  headed  to  bankruptcy.  The  sheriff  will 
sell  its  stock  for  what  he  can  get  and  an  ice  man 
will  be  the  only  bidder  at  the  sale. 

Here  is  where  the  Christian  hearts  differ  from 
the  non-Christian.  An  atheist,  a  rationalist,  a 
positivist,  avouch  we  are  heading  into  winter 


110 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


to  be  frozen  in  forever.  He  thinks  the  ice  floe 
will  again  trespass  on  the  temperate  and  the  tropic 
zones.  To  him  the  earth  is  a  ship  like  the  Fram 
to  be  imbedded  in  a  sea  of  ice,  but  not,  like  the 
Fram,  to  ultimately  get  through  the  ice  floe  to 
an  open  sea.  Evolution  has  not  made  good.  It 
devil-utes  as  well  as  evolutes.  We  have  seen  this 
in  recent  years.  Though  our  brain  be  torpid  from 
hibernation,  we  dare  not  forget  that.  What  we 
know  we  know.  We  cannot  and  we  dare  not 
forget  Germany.  If  the  Great  Companion  be 
dead,  as  the  agnostic  avers,  we  are  headed  into 
eternal  winter  and  are  near  it  now. 

Christians  hold  a  wholly  different  theory.  They 
know  we  are  headed  into  spring.  There  is  another 
word  to  utter  when  winter  is  stuttering  with 
thick  and  frozen  lips  and  fumbling  tongue.  That 
word  is  spring,  spring,  spring.  Across  the  wild 
winter  revels  we  faintly  yet  truly  hear  a  blue 
bird’s  song  like  an  angel’s  flute.  There  be  lilies 
at  fragrance,  and  flowers  be  on  the  winter’s  bourne. 
Christ  planted  them  and  keeps  them  growing. 
Peace,  heart,  hurt  heart,  breaking  heart,  doubting 
heart,  sobbing  heart.  Consider  that  Easter  is  in 
the  early  spring  barely  outside  the  threshold  of 
winter.  And  winter  betimes  is  in  the  air.  Some¬ 
times  the  winter  staggers  back  like  a  drunkard 
and  slays  all  greening  things,  and  then  the  spring 
pushes  him  back  with  a  wave  of  the  lily  and  he 
sprawls  on  his  face  stone  dead. 

We  Christians  are  spring-time  bound.  We  cross 


HEADED  INTO  SPRING 


111 


the  winter.  We  are  always  on  the  road  across 
it  but  never  on  the  road  into  it.  It  is  on  the  road 
to  spring.  Alleluiah,  this  is  the  unsurly  philosophy 
of  Christianity.  This  is  the  dogmatics  of  God. 
Winter  cannot  last.  Spring  will  last.  “There 
everlasting  spring  abides”  comes  like  a  robin’s 
call  across  the  snow  and  truly  endless  spring 
abides,  abides. 

For  such  valid  reason,  therefore,  Christians  sing 
along  the  wintry  ways.  They  see  things  as  they 
are  and  as  they  are  to  be.  Winter  cannot  freeze 
them  in.  Springtime  thaws  them  out.  Blessed 
spring.  Christ  is  our  springtime.  Christians  are 
mutilated  by  the  winter  of  sin  but  not  destroyed. 
We  hear  about  being  cast  down  but  are  not 
tutored  of  Christ  to  be  destroyed.  We  wage  war 
with  sin.  We  fight  heathenism  in  our  own  land 
and  every  land.  We  have  a  lamp  in  the  hand, 
and  this  lamp  is  the  sun  which  draws  near  to  our 
world  each  passing  day.  Premillenarianism  de¬ 
lights  that  Christ’s  gospel  has  failed,  so  that 
Christ  will  come  and  do  we  know  not  what.  No, 
we  Christians  are  in  ecstasy  that  the  gospel  has 
not  failed;  and  we  are  not  heathen,  so  do  not 
greatly  doubt  but  greatly  believe  “He  shall  not 
fail”  We  know  whom  we  have  believed,  arid 
that  in  his  right  hand  he  holds  the  fragrant 
springtime  for  the  world  and  for  the  world  to 
come.  It  is  winter.  Sin  is  devilish,  icy,  horri¬ 
ble.  Dante’s  Satan  is  frozen  in  hell  by  a  frozen 
river  made  by  the  tears  sin  has  made  mankind 


112 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


shed.  ’Tis  a  great  poet’s  spiritual  sagacity  that 
saw  this.  Sin  is  winter  and  headed  toward 
eternal  winter.  Christianity  is  spring  and  headed 
toward  eternal  spring. 

That  is  the  witfulness  of  the  Methodist  Cen¬ 
tenary.  We  believe,  therefore  have  we  given  and 
prayed  that  this  frozen  world  and  the  sinning 
world  be  made  like  a  spring  wind  laden  with 
innumerable  odors.  We  shall  not  fail.  The  need 
of  the  world  is  so  clamant  and  sin  is  so  necessary 
to  be  slain  and  this  exploit  is  so  in  harmony  with 
the  heart  of  God  that  it  must  succeed. 

All  the  winter’s  sin  makes  us  know  we  need 
the  spring  where  sin  shall  make  the  roadways 
dangerous  no  more.  Christianity  has  the  world’s 
answer  to  the  world’s  need,  the  only  answer. 
Christianity  can  come  across  the  winter  and  it 
can  invade  the  spring  and  bring  a  sinning  world 
out  of  ice  drift  into  star  drift  and  flower  drift 
and  song  drift  as  birds  and  children  and  redeemed 
hope  from  every  tribe  and  into  the  hallelujah 
choruses  of  the  redeemed,  “Where  everlasting 
spring  abides.” 

Headed  inevitably  and  rejoicingly  into  spring. 
And  Christ  is  that  everlasting  Spring. 


PRAYER 


Lord,  we  humbly  bless  thee  for  thy  providence.  It  is 
so  wide  a  word.  It  fills  eternity.  It  lasts.  It  has  a  thou¬ 
sand  medicines.  We  know  so  little  of  it,  only  we  know  it. 
Is  not  that  enough?  Did  not  Jesus  say  we  were  of  more 
worth  than  lilies,  and  the  short-lived  grass,  and  the  chatter¬ 
ing  sparrows? 

“O  ye  of  little  faith,” — my  Master,  even  Christ,  say  not 
that  to  me,  I  humbly  pray.  Answer  me  with  another  word 
— “Great  is  thy  faith,”  say  that  to  me,  and  may  I  measure 
up  to  that  amazing  encomium. 

Thy  providence — I  cannot  speak  witfully  concerning  it; 
but  in  my  heart  I  gladly  acknowledge  God  is  over  all.  He 
is  my  Father.  I  rest  under  his  canopy  and  my  awakening 
is  lighted  by  his  holy  stars.  All  my  way  has  guardianship, 
since  though  I  fall  God  shall  be  along-side,  and  I  shall  rise 
and  God  shall  make  journey  with  me.  I  shall  die,  but  not 
in  the  dark.  My  God  shall  shine  his  light  along  my  stagger¬ 
ing  path  so  my  dimming  eyes  shall  see  the  way  to  take.  I 
shall  not  miss  the  crossing. 

The  providence  of  God  stands  sure;  and  so  I  stand  kept, 
fortified,  profited,  enabled,  and  make  my  journey  attuned 
to  heavenly  anthems.  My  soul,  thy  providence  is  Christ. 
Rest  and  Amen. 


114 


VIII 


GOD’S  OWN  NOTION  OF  DIVINE 
PROVIDENCE 

“Are  not  five  sparrows  sold  for  two  farthings,  and  not 
one  of  them  is  forgotten  before  God?” — Luke  12.  6. 

“Are  not  two  sparrows  sold  for  a  farthing?  and  one  of 
them  shall  not  fall  on  the  ground  without  your  Father.” 
— Matt.  10.  29. 

If  Jesus  had  not  talked  this  way,  for  my  part 
I  would  not  have  believed  this  talk;  but  seeing 
Jesus  did  talk  this  way,  and  seeing  we  never 
knew  him  to  mislead  us,  and  seeing  he  is  the 
Truth,  I  cannot  help  but  believe  that  this  is  so. 
It  is  too  wonderful  to  be  true  on  the  one  side; 
and  then,  on  the  other  side,  it  is  altogether  too 
necessary  to  be  untrue,  and  Jesus  said  it;  and 
that  is  its  certificate  of  truth.  And,  in  a  word, 
what  I  would  have  you  catch  with  all  its  divine 
preciousness  and  cadence  is  that  Jesus  says  in 
the  scripture  I  read  you  that  the  sparrow’s  life 
was  looked  after  by  God;  and  the  second  scripture 
says  that  there  is  always  one  mourner  at  a  spar¬ 
row’s  funeral,  and  that  mourner  is  God. 

Now,  Jesus  evidently  had  been  over  at  the 
market  and  had  been  noticing  the  price  list  of 

115 


116 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


sparrows;  and  these  sayings,  that  are  often  con¬ 
founded  in  thought  as  if  they  were  one,  are  not 
one  and  are  not  identical,  but  very  gladly  and 
very  truly  two  sayings.  Jesus  said  at  different 
times  two  strangely  and  beautifully  different 
things  about  sparrows.  He  said  that  sparrows 
sold  two  for  a  third  of  a  cent.  That  is  cheap 
enough  for  preachers  to  buy  them;  and  that  is 
cheap  enough  to  have  a  Sunday  dinner  for  the 
poorest  of  us.  Two  sparrows — the  market  price 
in  the  price  list — two  for  a  third  of  a  cent.  And 
then  when  the  family  was  bigger  and  they  needed 
more  meat,  Jesus  saw  that  the  price  list  read 
that  if  you  bought  two  farthings’  worth,  you 
would  get  an  extra  sparrow  thrown  in  for  a  bar¬ 
gain,  and  you  would  get  five  sparrows  for  two 
thirds  of  a  cent. 

Well,  now,  is  that  all?  Why,  no;  that  is  not  all. 
Is  that  the  start?  Well,  it  is  not  quite  the  start. 
What  is  this  sparrow  talk,  foolish  as  the  bickering 
of  sparrows  on  a  roof?  Why,  it  is  not  sparrow 
talk;  it  is  God  talk.  And  Jesus  says  of  these 
sparrows,  so  tiny,  so  tough,  so  undesirable  for 
food  even  for  the  poorest  that  they  are  practically 
actually  worthless  in  the  markets,  that  God  looks 
after  the  life  of  every  one  of  them,  and  God 
digs  the  grave  for  every  one  that  dies,  and  God 
is  the  mourner  at  every  worthless  sparrow’s  grave. 
And  then  he  says — didn't  you  hear  him? — “We 
will  not  forget!”  And  then  he  says  with  a 
jubilancy  of  voice  like  the  blowing  of  great  music 


DIVINE  PROVIDENCE 


117 


— oh,  it  is  so  heartening  to  hear  it! — “Are  ye 
not  of  much  more  worth  than  many  sparrows?” 
“Don’t  you  think,”  he  says,  “that  God  will  look 
after  you  folks,  if  he  forgets  no  sparrow  folk? 
Don’t  you  think  he  will  take  care  of  your  children 
when  he  takes  care  of  a  sparrow’s  children? 
Don’t  you  think  he  will  plan  for  your  future  when 
he  plans  for  the  sparrow’s  future?”  Jesus  said: 
“Don’t  lose  heart.  You  are  not  worthless.  God 
notices  you.  He  has  them  under  his  eye;  he 
won’t  forget  you.”  Take  heart,  O  souls;  clap 
the  hands  of  your  heart  and  sing.  He  is  out 
watching  over  us. 

Now,  there  are  two  primal  ideas  that  I  think 
absolutely  necessary  in  any  worthy  life.  One  of 
these  is  a  right  idea  about  man  and  the  other 
of  these  is  a  right  idea  about  God.  If  you  make 
a  miss  on  either  of  these  notions,  you  will  never 
get  right  on  any  notion.  In  a  great  many  matters, 
if  you  hazard  on  them  and  fail  in  the  hazard, 
you  guess  and  guess  amiss,  and  figure  at  the  sum 
and  figure  it  out  wrong,  there  will  be  nobody 
hurt  and  no  issue  changed;  but  if  you  get  a  wrong 
notion  of  God  and  if  you  get  a  wrong  notion  of 
man,  every  notion  of  the  universe  which  lies 
between  these  two  strange  extremes  will  be  de¬ 
fective  and  only  defective  forever.  You  might 
be  able  to  measure  the  bulk  of  the  stars;  you 
might  be  able  to  catch  the  tug  on  the  cable  of 
gravitation;  you  might  be  able  to  compute  for 
nautical  almanacs  the  coming  and  going  of  the 


118 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


tides;  you  might  be  able  to  name  a  discovery  for 
the  new  archipelagoes  of  stars;  but  if  you  do  all 
that  and  do  it  well,  namely,  accurately,  and  do 
not  get  the  right  notion  of  the  man  who  did  the 
estimating  and  the  God  who  did  the  creating  of 
the  star  and  gravitation  and  the  tug  of  tide  and 
ocean  that  hath  the  tides,  and  sun  that  pulls  the 
tides  with  the  moon  that  is  the  intermediary,  all 
your  astronomy  will  be  worse  than  a  broken 
cobweb  that  hangs  between  the  sunflowers  on  the 
dusty  autumn  plain.  Who  is  man?  That  is  one 
matter.  Who  is  God?  That  is  another  matter. 
Here  is  man  at  the  poles  of  the  universe,  and 
yonder  is  God  at  the  poles  of  the  universe.  And 
where  is  man  going?  Oh,  well,  if  he  is  going 
right,  he  is  going  toward  God. 

Who  is  man?  Now,  then,  if  we  were  good 
logicians,  if  we  had  a  knowledge  of  man — a  right 
knowledge  of  man — then  we  could  get  knowledge, 
a  right  knowledge,  of  God.  Or  if  we  had  right 
knowledge  of  God,  then  we  could,  if  we  were 
good  logicians,  get  right  knowledge  of  man.  But 
we  are  not  good  logicians.  Most  people’s  logic 
breaks  like  a  dismantled  rainbow  and  we  have 
nothing  but  shivering  remnants  of  departed  glory. 
And,  besides  all  that,  we  cannot  get  a  right  notion 
of  man  and  we  cannot  get  a  right  notion  of  God. 
We  must  be  tutored.  We  must  be  shown.  We 
must  have  some  schoolmaster.  We  must  be 
informed. 

Nothing  is  more  simple  to  the  theory  than  to 


DIVINE  PROVIDENCE 


119 


say  that  anybody  can  get  a  right  notion  of  man; 
and  truly  it  looks  so,  and  truly  it  is  not  so.  We 
are  with  ourselves  all  the  time.  Some  of  us 
might  be  glad  to  get  away  from  ourselves,  but 
we  are  not  permitted.  We  can  get  away  from 
other  folks,  but  we  cannot  get  away  from  our¬ 
selves.  A  man  eats  with  himself,  he  thinks  with 
himself,  he  loves  with  himself,  and  dreams  with 
himself.  He  himself  is  his  own  companion  from 
birth  morn  to  death’s  dewless  night.  Yet  there 
is  not  anybody  with  whom  we  are  absolutely  less 
familiar  than  we  are  with  ourselves. 

People  know  little  about  many  things,  but  I 
will  say  they  know  less  than  little  about  them¬ 
selves.  If  you  want  an  accurate  judgment  of  a 
man,  don’t  ask  the  man;  ask  his  wife.  And  if 
you  want  an  honorable  judgment,  namely,  truth¬ 
ful,  of  a  man,  don’t  ask  his  wife;  ask  his  neigh¬ 
bors.  A  man  doesn’t  know  himself.  A  man  is 
apt  to  overrate  himself.  If  a  man  were  to  put  a 
price  mark  on  himself,  knowing  that  he  was  to 
be  put  in  a  salesroom  or  bazaar,  don’t  you  know 
that  he  would  put  about  ten  times  as  big  a  price 
mark  on  himself  as  the  other  folks  would  put 
on  him?  Don’t  you  know  that  his  neighbors 
would  put  a  bargain  price  on  him?  And  don’t 
you  know  that  he  would  put  a  price  mark  on 
himself  that  would  defy  all  sale?  That  is  solely 
to  say  that  a  man  is  not  acquainted  with  himself. 
That  is  all  it  is  to  say.  I  do  not  fault  it,  not  at 
all.  I  say  this,  that  if  a  man  didn’t  think  some- 


120 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


thing  of  himself,  and  if  a  man  didn’t  have  a  bigger 
estimate  of  himself  than  most  folks  do,  he  could 
not  stay  with  himself  at  all.  I  think  it  one  of 
the  sweet  kindnesses  of  God  that  we  do  not 
know  ourselves.  We  do  not  know  the  right 
climbing  directions  of  our  own  powers.  We 
cannot  quadrate  our  own  possibility  in  the  uni¬ 
verse.  We  usually  are  of  lesser  bulk  than  we' 
dream.  We  are  not  worlds  but  satellites.  And 
it  is  not  in  actual  usage  possible  for  a  man  to 
know  himself;  and  a  man  that  lives  with  himself 
all  the  time  is  still  an  unknown  continent  to  him¬ 
self.  And  if  we  don’t  know  ourselves,  how  are 
we  going  to  know  God?  And  we  don’t  know 
other  folks.  We  cannot  plummet  souls.  We 
cannot  know  how  wide  the  deserts  of  the  soul 
are.  We  do  not  know  what  vast  despairs  tyran¬ 
nize  over  people’s  hearts.  We  do  not  know  what 
shifting  storms  rankle  in  men’s  lives.  We  do  not 
know  how  the  Hell-sea  angers  on  the  rocks  of 
people’s  characters.  The  next-door  neighbors  of 
us — the  next-door  neighbors  to  them — we  do  not 
know.  And  when  a  man  gets  to  be  a  genius,  as 
few  men  in  the  history  of  literature  are,  their 
faculty  superb  is  that  they  know  other  people’s 
souls.  They  do  not  know  their  own  souls,  but 
other  people’s  souls.  Shakespeare  was  no  more 
a  judge  of  himself  than  other  people  are  judges 
of  themselves;  but  he  knew  other  people’s  souls 
so  well  that  when  we  are  with  him  we  think  we 
have  gotten  to  a  master  of  souls.  And  all  the 


DIVINE  PROVIDENCE 


121 


greatest  men  that  ever  drew  breath  and  sighed 
and  sobbed  and  lifted  up  a  wonder  call  and 
charmed  the  earth  and  put  new  rainbows  in  the 
despairing  stormy  sky  of  life,  were  people  that 
knew  more  about  people  than  other  folks;  but 
they  didn’t  know  all!  Now,  when  we  don’t  know 
men,  how  are  we  going  to  get  logical  basis  from 
which  to  argue  up  to  God?  And  if  we  don’t  know 
man,  having  been  man  all  our  life,  and  if  we  don’t 
know  man  having  lived  with  man  all  our  life, 
how  are  we  going  to  know  about  God?  And  the 
plain,  simple  statement  is  that  neither  man  nor 
God  have  we  ever  gotten  rightly  at;  and  the 
plain,  simple  statement  is  that  man  and  God 
we  must  get  rightly  at  or  we  shall  get  right  with 
nothing  and  we  shall  arrive  at  no  right  destination, 
and  we  shall  tie  our  boat  up  at  some  foreign 
wharf  where  we  have  no  business.  And  this  is 
why  Jesus  came  here. 

Jesus  came  here  to  talk  on  just  two  matters; 
one  of  his  items  was  man  and  the  other  of  his 
items  was  God.  He  never  talked  about  anything 
else.  If  he  talked  about  the  sparrows,  he  was 
looking  at  man,  not  at  the  sparrows.  When  he 
talked  about  God,  and  when  he  talked  about  men, 
then  he  was  at  his  theme.  And  the  incarnation 
is  sufficiently  explained  by  the  impossibility  of 
us  folks  that  are  born  to  live  and  born  to  die 
getting  right  notions  about  either  God  or  man. 
And  Jesus  came  to  tell  us  how  it  was  with  man; 
and  he  came  to  show  us  how  it  was  with  God. 


122 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


And  so  man  and  God  are  not  only  the  extremes 
of  Jesus’  talk,  but  they  are  the  sum  total  themes 
of  Jesus’  discourse. 

And  we  must  have  a  right  notion  about  God. 
If  we  get  wrong  about  God,  our  catastrophe  is 
supreme.  There  is  no  mending  it.  If  you  get 
a  pusillanimous  God,  you  will  have  a  pusillanimous 
population.  If  you  get  a  magnanimous  God,  you 
will  have  a  magnanimous  population.  If  you 
get  a  heartless  God,  you  will  have  a  Roman 
population.  If  you  get  a  gleeful,  aesthetic  God, 
you  will  have  a  Greek  race  of  laughter  and  of 
song  and  of  grace  and  death.  And  if  you  get  a 
heart  God,  and  a  God  of  a  heart,  then  you  will 
get  a  heaven  populated  with  music  and  laughter, 
and  an  earth  populated  with  joy,  and  a  world 
that  is  made  so  tender  that  a  touch  upon  it  is 
like  the  touch  upon  the  hands  of  a  little  child. 
We  must  get  right  notions  about  God. 

And  Jesus  came  here  to  show  us,  not  to  tell  us. 
These  people  that  tell  us  may  be  prophets,  and 
you  may  name  them  seers,  but  the  people  that 
show  us — they  are  glorious.  Telling  folks  won’t 
do.  We  are  so  dull-eared,  we  are  so  incapable 
of  larger  understandings;  we  are  so  incompetent 
for  the  reasoning  processes;  we  are  so  dubious 
or  so  hesitant,  so  bordering  on  despair,  so  fretful; 
we  are  so  incompetent  to  climb;  our  sublimities 
are  so  far  from  us  that  we  can  catch  them  only 
temporarily  in  the  wandering  vastnesses  of  our 
moods;  and  what  we  want  is  somebody  to  show 


DIVINE  PROVIDENCE 


128 


us.  And  Jesus  came  and  showed  us  himself,  and 
he  said,  “I  am  the  Son  of  man.”  Oh,  now,  is 
this  a  man?  This  is  a  man.  And  he  came  and 
showed  us  himself  and  he  said,  “I  am  the  Son 
of  God.”  0  Christ,  what  are  you  doing?  And 
he  said,  “I  am  showing  you  man  and  I  am  show¬ 
ing  you  God;  look  and  remember.”  That  is  it. 

Now,  what  is  God  doing?  Allow  there  be  a 
God,  what  is  God  doing?  And  we  will  never 
get  at  that,  in  my  belief,  unless  we  get  it  from 
Jesus.  What  is  God  doing?  Why,  he  is  doing 
the  big  things.  What  is  God  doing?  Why,  he 
is  making  charts  for  the  stars  to  sail  by.  What 
is  God  doing?  He  is  building  the  grand  dyke 
around  the  seas  to  keep  the  hazard  of  the  waters 
in,  when  the  storm  is  fingering  with  the  waves. 
What  is  God  doing?  Keeping  the  mountains  in 
their  places  where  he  has  anchored  them.  What 
is  God  doing?  Sowing  the  forests  so  the  ships 
shall  not  be  without  masts  while  the  ages  endure. 
What  is  God  doing?  Oh,  you  may  reckon  that 
from  the  days  of  Homer  and  dEschylus  to  the  days 
of  William  Watson,  anybody,  who  tried  to  tell 
what  God  was  doing  without  going  to  see  him 
will  have  God  off  doing  vast  exploits  and  sailing 
vast  seas  and  going  through  an  interminable 
universe.  And  when  Jesus  came  here  he  said: 
“God  is  staying  down  close  along  the  ground, 
where  he  can  watch  the  sparrows  when  they  are 
building  their  houses;  and  he  is  staying  down 
close  along  the  ground  so  he  can  teach  the  witless, 


124 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


worthless  sparrows  how  to  fly;  and  he  is  staying 
close  along  the  ground  so  that  when  the  baby 
sparrow  falls  from  its  ilLbuilt  nest  he  will  be 
there  to  dig  a  grave  for  it;  and  he  is  staying  close 
along  the  ground  so  that  no  bird  shall  come  to 
its  eternal  slumber  without  having  one  Body  by 
it  to  shed  a  tear.  God  is  out  around  looking 
for  the  lost  and  caring  for  the  last  insignificant.,, 
There  will  be  some  other  that  will  be  out  look¬ 
ing  at  the  mountains.  Some  look  at  the  moun¬ 
tains  because  they  are  so  high  and  they  hedge 
the  sky  and  they  catch  the  glory  of  the  skies 
on  their  tops.  But  who  is  going  to  be  around 
looking  for  the  baffled  folks  and  looking  at  the 
common  things?  And  Jesus  says,  “God  is.” 
What  I  say  is,  nobody  knew  that  but  Christ, 
and  nobody  shows  that  but  Christ.  Thank  God, 
beloved,  this  is  the  right  idea  of  God,  that  nothing 
is  beneath  him,  that  he  has  no  small  work,  that 
he  has  no  insignificants;  that  everything  that  is 
around  is  a  big  enough  thing  for  God  to  lay  his 
hand  on,  and  for  God  to  touch  with  his  fingers, 
and  for  God  to  caress  with  his  tears — everything. 

The  right  notion  to  get  about  God  is  not  that 
God  is  exclusive,  but  that  God  is  inclusive.  That 
is  the  right  notion  about  God.  Why,  woman, 
what  are  you  hugging  so?  And  she  says,  “I  am 
hugging  my  baby.”  Ay,  but  there  are  a  hundred 
babies  at  the  orphanage  that  haven’t  anybody 
to  hug  them.  And  she  says,  “Oh,  I  am  busy; 
I  am  hugging  my  baby.”  And  she  well  might. 


DIVINE  PROVIDENCE 


125 


Anybody  who  wouldn’t  hug  a  baby  such  as  was 
brought  here  for  the  preacher  to  baptize  this 
morning,  isn’t  worth  keeping  around.  When  you 
get  so  you  don’t  want  to  hug  babies,  then  nobody 
ought  to  hug  you.  What  about  the  hundred 
babies  motherless?  Is  God  exclusive?  Why,  no, 
thank  God,  he  is  inclusive.  lie  is  around  mother¬ 
ing  all  the  motherless;  he  is  around  fathering  all 
the  fatherless.  Who  are  you?  I  don’t  know  who 
you  are,  but  I  know  God  knows  who  you  are. 
Where  do  you  live?  I  don’t  know  where  you  live, 
but  my  God  knows  where  you  live.  If  God  came 
to  town  to-day,  he  would  not  consult  the  city 
directory  but  come  to  your  house  and  climb  the 
stairs,  or  go  down  the  back  stairs,  down  the  long, 
dark  hall,  and  knock  on  your  back  door.  How 
many  numbers  here?  Why,  number,  number, 
number,  everybody’s  room  has  a  number,  and 
there  are  so  many  numbers  and  so  many  rooms. 
But  God  never  asks  anybody  where  you  live. 
He  never  makes  a  mistake  about  your  room,  but 
knocks  at  your  door  in  the  cellar  or  garret  or 
anywhere  in  the  apartments  or  anywhere  in  the 
town,  and  says,  “I  just  came  to  town  and  thought 
I  would  come  over  to  see  you.”  '‘How  did  you 
know  where  I  lived?”  “Oh,”  he  said,  “I  never 
forget.”  Thank  God! 

Now,  then,  that  is  the  right  notion  of  God. 
What  Jesus  meant  to  say,  and  what  I  think  he 
did  say,  in  terms  as  unforgettable  as  the  minstrelsy 
of  angels  on  the  night  Jesus  was  born,  is  that 


126 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


there  is  a  God  in  heaven  and  on  earth,  both  in 
heaven  and  on  the  earth,  to  whom  everybody  is 
worthy,  and  with  whom  everybody  is  influential, 
and  to  whom  everybody  is  a  person  of  impor¬ 
tance.  O  life,  wouldn’t  you  love  a  God  like  that? 
Who  cares?  God  does.  God  does.  Who  notices? 
God  does.  This  matter  of  noticing  and  caring, 
it  is  a  great  matter.  Some  people  don’t  notice. 
You  could  pass  them  a  hundred  times  and  they 
don’t  notice.  You  could  elbow  up  against 
people  because  you  didn’t  notice  where  you  are 
going,  or  sometimes  because  you  want  them  to 
notice  where  you  are  going,  and  you  want  a  smile 
from  them,  but  they  barely  say,  “Watch  out 
where  you  are  going  and  what  you  are  doing.” 
Some  people  don’t  notice;  and  then  some  people 
when  they  do  notice  don’t  care.  They  look 
at  you  and  your  face  is  furrowed.  Why,  it  is 
plowed  with  the  crazy  plows  of  care,  because  the 
plows  wherewith  men  plow  the  fields  go  straight 
across  the  field  they  are  plowing,  but  the  plow  of 
care  is  a  crazy  plow;  it  runs  its  furrows  zigzag. 
Some  people  when  they  notice  you,  don’t  care, 
and  when  they  see  all  your  life  fairly  plowed  by 
the  plow  of  care,  they  are  so  busy  with  them¬ 
selves  they  don’t  have  any  more  care  than  if 
they  didn’t  notice  you  at  all.  And  God  notices,  and 
God  cares;  and  I  am  going  to  have  comfort  now. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  talk  first  and  last  about 
the  immanency  of  God.  That  means  God  is 
Love  not  only  there  but  here.  And  there  is  a  good 


DIVINE  PROVIDENCE 


127 


deal  of  talk,  witless  in  the  main  I  think,  about 
the  carpenter  theory  of  the  universe,  namely, 
that  God  built  the  universe  and  went  off  and 
left  it.  Rut  the  trouble  with  that  kind  of  talk 
is  this,  that  the  people  that  make  it  against 
Christianity  have  not  had  Christ  show  them 
things,  have  not  had  Christ  tell  them  things. 
Do  you  tell  me  there  is  a  carpenter  of  the  uni¬ 
verse,  or  an  absentee  God  and  a  Landlord  that 
doesn’t  come  to  the  house  he  has  to  rent,  when 
he  is  down  here  watching  for  the  sparrows? 
O  soul,  God  is  in  town.  O  soul,  God  is  in  your¬ 
self.  O  soul,  God  will  stay  up  with  you.  O  soul, 
God  will  laugh  with  your  joy.  O  soul,  here  is  God. 
What  a  God  that  is! 

I  read  this  week  one  day  how  Dr.  Grenfell,  the 
man  of  the  Labrador  coast,  out  on  a  mission  of 
mercy  driven  by  his  dogs,  went  out  on  an  ice 
floe;  then  the  floe  drifted  out  to  the  sea,  then 
dogs  and  master  tipped  in  the  surly  winter 
waters  along  the  Labrador  coast,  then  climbed 
along  on  a  rock  of  ice  and  floated.  And  the 
storm  was  so  cold  and  so  bitter,  and  the  dogs 
were  so  fierce  that  the  doctor  had  to  fight  for  his 
life.  He  slew  some  of  the  dogs  to  keep  them 
from  slaying  him.  He  wrapped  himself  about 
with  their  skins.  He  took  the  legs  of  the  dead 
dogs  and  tied  the  bones  of  the  legs  together  and 
made  a  staff  of  such  poor  material  as  this,  and 
took  his  own  garment  and  swung  it  to  the  top 
piece  of  the  sorry  staff  so  somebody  might  see 


128 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


him.  And  the  winter  storm  was  terrible;  and 
the  winter  sea  was  surly;  and  the  death  hazard 
was  imminent,  and  the  dogs  howled  and  fought 
like  wild,  uncanny  beasts.  And  somebody  saw 
that  flagstaff  made  from  the  bones  of  the  dead 
dogs  upon  which  the  man  swung  his  own  gar¬ 
ment  for  a  flag,  and  somebody  came  and  rescued 
him.  But  what  I  want  you  to  know  and  what  I 
want  to  certify  to,  is,  If  nobody  else  noticed  us, 
God  would.  God  saw  the  battle  in  the  briny, 
bitter  sea.  And  what  you  say  is,  “Why  didn’t 
God  help  him?”  Why,  God  did,  dear  heart. 
You  mean.  Why  didn’t  God  go  and  help  him  off 
the  raft  of  icebergs?  Oh,  well,  because  God  is  in 
better  business  than  helping  folks  off  the  icebergs. 
God’s  business  is  to  help  the  man  while  on  the 
iceberg  to  play  the  man  while  there,  and  in  the 
storm  to  play  the  man  while  the  storm  angers 
and  while  he  is  fighting  for  life  with  the  maddened 
hunger  of  the  brutes  to  be  so  much  the  man 
that  while  God  looks  on  he  says  to  his  angels, 
“Now  play  the  hallelujah  chorus.  There  is  some¬ 
thing  being  done  that  ought  to  wake  your 
ecstasies.  Now  play,  play!”  And  what  I  say 
this  morning  is  that  everybody  harassed  by  care, 
and  everybody  dug  into  by  the  rowels  of  care 
and  pain,  and  everybody  baffled  by  the  exigencies 
of  things  he  cannot  master,  and  everybody 
floating  out  on  an  iceberg  in  the  winter  sea  to 
die,  thinking  that  nobody  knows  and  nobody 
cares — God  cares  and  God  knows,  and  he  will 


DIVINE  PROVIDENCE 


129 


bring  him  to  a  desired  haven,  thank  God!  Ah, 
brothers,  brothers!  O  sisters,  sisters!  God  is 
around  caring  for  the  five-sparrows-for-two-farth- 
ing  folk,  all  the  cheap  folks  among  us,  all  of  us, 
all  of  us.  God  is  noticing  and  God  cares. 

And  when  you  remember  this  thing  you  must 
never  forget  that  God  came  to  die  for  his  folks 
here;  God  came  to  die  for  his  little  folks  here; 
God  came  to  die  for  the  least  man  and  least 
woman  of  us  here;  then  you  will  understand 
what  Jesus  meant  when  he  said,  4 ‘Are  not  ye  of 
much  more  value  than  many  sparrows?”  God 
lives  for  the  sparrows,  but  never  dies  for  them. 
God  both  lives  and  dies  for  us,  and  then  he  lives 
again.  Thank  God!  For  human  souls  God  lives 
and  God  dies,  and  God  hath  resurrections.  And 
for  these  poor,  forgotten  folks  God  hath  notice, 
and  God  hath  care,  and  God  hath  a  cross,  and 
God  hath  salvation,  and  God  hath  a  ladder  built 
up  into  the  skies,  and  God  hath  a  house  not 
made  with  hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens.  O, 
I  wonder  if  there  is  anybody  who,  if  he  got  that 
notion  of  God,  would  not  fall  in  love  with  him? 
That  is  God.  That  is  our  God.  Glory  to  his 
excellent  name  forever! 

Prayer:  O  Lord,  God,  bless  us,  hearten  us, 
restore  our  lost  faith  to  us.  Give  us  God — the  great, 
true,  tender,  affable,  merciful,  salvation-bringing, 
cross-lifting  God — bring  him  to  us,  and  then,  0 
mighty  God,  bring  us  to  him,  in  Christ.  Amen. 


PRAYER 


Gracious  Lord,  our  Father  and  our  God,  we  feel  thee. 
That  is  better  than  seeing  thee.  We  have  been  long  in 
learning  that.  We  were  slow  as  ladened  beasts  coming  up 
a  long  and  dusty  summer  hill.  We  stumbled  and  loitered. 
We  thought  sight  was  best.  “Show  us  the  Father  and  it 
sufficeth,”  is  our  dull  word  as  it  was  of  one  long  since  silent 
in  death.  But  he,  no  doubt,  learned  larger  things,  and  we 
praise  thee,  Lord  of  All,  that  we  too  are  learning  though  with 
pathetic  slowness.  We  feel  thee.  We  feel  thee  when  the 
way  narrows  and  the  paths  are  dark.  We  feel  thee  when 
the  way  widens  and  the  sunshines  leaps  like  spray  along  the 
near  and  far.  We  feel  thee  when  we  come  on  sudden  exigen¬ 
cies  which  fret  the  soul  and  harrow  it  with  harrow  teeth  of 
iron  and  we  bleed  like  men  wounded  to  the  death.  We 
feel  thee  when  the  fields  are  ready  for  the  rain  but  no  rain 
falls;  and  the  dews  at  dark  and  through  the  dark  refuse  to 
fall.  In  drought  thou  art  on  us,  in  us,  over  us.  Fast  and 
free  thou  comest  from  afar  and  at  a  cry  or  tear  or  whisper 
of  gladness,  slippest  across  the  threshold  of  our  being  and  we 
are  in  God’s  hands,  and  he  is  in  our  house  of  heart,  and  we 
are  his  as  he  is  ours.  What  shall  we  render  unto  the  Lord 
for  this  feeling  him  with  us  and  we  feeling  so  sweetly  at  home 
with  him? 

We  will  fret  no  more  but  only  laugh  and  weep  and  hold 
to  God,  even  the  living  God.  Nothing  shall  disconcert  us 
forever  in  Christ.  Amen. 


130 


IX 


THE  HUSHED  PROPHETS 

“And  he  shall  turn  the  heart  of  the  fathers  to  the  chil¬ 
dren,  and  the  heart  of  the  children  to  their  fathers,  lest  I  come 
and  smite  the  earth  with  a  curse.” — The  Last  Verse  of  the 
Old  Testament. 

Malachi  lived  four  hundred  years  before 
Jesus,  so  that  from  Jesus  back  to  Malachi  and 
Malachi  forward  to  Jesus  was  a  silent  era  of  four 
centuries.  It  was  a  strange  silence,  I  think  you  will 
allow.  From  the  days  of  Moses  to  the  days  of 
Malachi  was  a  thousand  years;  a  thousand  years 
fairly  glutted  with  history  and  with  poetry  and 
with  battle  and  with  prophecy.  There  was  no 
space  of  silence — always  a  voice  in  the  sky.  Some¬ 
times  it  was  a  shepherd  who  spoke;  sometimes  it 
was  a  king’s  voice;  sometimes  a  fig-grower’s 
voice  called;  sometimes  it  was  a  country  voice; 
sometimes  it  was  a  city  voice;  sometimes  it  had 
the  drip  of  tears;  sometimes  it  clamored  like 
ecstatic  cymbals;  sometimes  it  was  the  wafting  of 
the  quiet  wind;  sometimes  it  was  the  alarm  of 
furious  tempests,  but  always  a  voice.  And  all  at 
once,  silence!  One  century — where  is  the  voice? 
No  voice.  Two  centuries — where  is  the  voice? 
No  voice.  Three  centuries,  and  they  sobbed: 
“Where  is  the  voice?”  No  voice.  Four  centuries 
— voiceless  as  the  dust. 

131 


132 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


And  I  am  asking.  What  has  hushed  the 
prophets?  What  has  stilled  their  clamor  into 
peace?  What  has  laid  death  finger  across  their 
lips?  Oh,  prophets,  sing!  Not  a  song.  Oh, 
prophets,  call!  Not  a  call.  Oh,  prophets,  whisper! 
Listen!  Not  a  whisper.  Silent!  What  has 
hushed  the  prophets?  And  I  would  have  you 
observe  that  it  was  as  if  at  a  Gettysburg,  which 
I  think  to  have  been  the  most  clamorous  mal¬ 
content  hammer  of  thunder  voices  of  battle  guns 
that  ever  woke,  sudden  silence  had  come.  I 
think  that  that  artillery  duel  at  that  great 
mountain  battle  has  no  fellow  in  the  history  of 
fight — when  the  great  black  lips  of  cannon  pursed 
themselves  and  spit  death,  and  the  sky  fairly 
wallowed  with  the  battle  voices,  crush,  and  crush, 
and  crush,  and  then  silence;  not  a  gun  spoke, 
not  a  cannon  woke;  only  the  smut  of  smoke 
lifted  dull  incense  from  the  cannon’s  mouth. 
Such  a  silence! 

Ten  centuries  of  clamoring  prophets’  voices; 
and  then  without  a  fringe  of  word,  until  the 
whisperings  even  are  no  more,  silence!  O 
prophets,  what  ails  you  that  you  have  grown  so 
dumb?  What  ails  you  that  you  speak  no  more? 
Four  centuries,  silence!  And  I  profess  that  the 
sense  of  the  miracle  of  the  Old  Testament  is,  not 
that  men  were  prophets,  not  that  men  with 
prophetic  voice  climbed  on  high  like  an  army  to 
the  summit  of  a  hill,  and  set  a  standard  up;  but 
that  the  miracle  of  the  Old  Testament  is  that  the 


THE  HUSHED  PROPHETS 


133 


prophetic  voice  is  hushed.  No  voice.  A  thou¬ 
sand  years  of  voice — four  centuries  of  silence. 
A  thousand  years — that  is  as  long  as  from  the 
days  of  Edward  the  Confessor  until  now  and 
past  it.  Think  you  this,  men  and  women:  What 
if  we  catalogue  the  authentic,  magnetic,  strangely 
thrilling  voices  of  England  for  its  thousand  years 
of  life?  What  was  England  doing?  It  was 
making  a  race.  What  was  England  doing? 
Contriving  institutions.  What  was  England 
doing?  Building  up  liberty.  Building  thrones 
that  by  and  by  there  might  be  a  throne  on  which 
there  sat  no  king,  but  on  which  sat  universal 
manhood  and  womanhood.  What  was  England 
doing?  Constructing  not  a  dress  parade  among 
the  peoples  of  the  earth,  but  constructing  a  prin¬ 
ciple  that  should  abide  because  it  was  the  dom- 
inancy  of  the  single  man  bought  by  the  life  and 
blood  of  Christ.  And  that  was  a  great  era. 

What  if  you  chronicle  the  voices  that  spoke — 
from  the  timorous  voice  of  Edward  the  Confessor 
and  the  bloody  voice  of  William  the  Conqueror, 
from  the  shuffling  voice  of  the  imbecile  King 
James  to  the  rugged  tumult  of  Cromwell’s  call¬ 
ing?  But  what  if  through  centuries  not  a  voice! 

But  I  call  you  all  to  note  that  this  Israel  his¬ 
tory  of  a  thousand  years  was  not  like  England’s, 
but  was  even  more  cohesive  and  penetrating. 
England  we  could  have  gotten  on  without;  Israel 
we  could  not  have  gotten  on  without.  From 


134 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Israel  sprang  a  King  whose  voice  rang  across  the 
battle  call  of  ages  and  said,  “Peace,  peace.”  And 
not  a  single  gun  thunders  along  the  world  this 
morning.  And  out  of  the  loins  of  Israel  came  this 
man,  this  God-Man,  Christ,  whose  walking 
through  the  centuries  has  guarded  England’s 
civilization  and  American  statecraft.  And  for  a 
thousand  years  these  trumpet  voices  at  the 
prophet’s  lips  had  been  calling,  calling,  calling; 
and  the  listening  ear  had  heard  the  calling,  call¬ 
ing.  And  then  the  calling  lip  and  the  listening 
ear,  and  then  the  calling  lip  and  the  listening 
ear,  and  then  the  calling  lip  and  the  listening  ear. 
And  then — no  call.  What  ails  the  prophets  that 
they  are  still? 

I  do  not  find  wonder  in  that  men  spoke.  That 
is  not  my  wonder.  The  wonder  is  when  men  hear 
God  and  never  tell  it;  that  is  the  wonder.  The 
wonder  is  that  people  hear  the  universe  speaking 
and  give  it  no  sibilant,  and  no  outspoken  word. 
What  ails  the  prophets  that  they  are  hushed? 

And  you  will  note  likewise  that  those  old 
prophets,  all  we  have  of  them  is  a  voice.  Never 
a  face.  Would  that  thrill  your  imagination, 
brothers,  were  you  poets?  Would  that  thrill 
your  imagination,  sisters,  were  you  dreamers  of 
dreams?  Would  that  thrill  you?  Never  a  face, 
not  one.  How  looked  Moses?  Guess.  How  looked 
Jeremiah?  Guess.  How  looked  Malachi?  Guess. 
How  looked  Zephaniah?  Guess.  How  looked 
Elijah?  Guess.  How  looked  David?  Guess. 


THE  HUSHED  PROPHETS 


135 


How  looked  Isaiah?  Guess.  How  looked  Amos? 
Guess.  How  looked  vagabond  Jonah,  fleeing 
from  the  voice  of  God?  Guess.  Nothing  but  a 
voice,  that  is  all.  Will  you  paint  the  thunder’s 
face?  Oh,  cunning  artist  hand,  paint  the 
thunder’s  face!  Seize  half  the  sky  for  canvas, 
mix  the  black  pools  of  midnight  pigments  for  thy 
black  colorings;  fling  on  the  blue  sky  colors  to 
frame  it.  Paint  it!  All  of  a  sudden  the  artist 
fingers  have  lost  the  brush,  and  he  doesn’t  know 
how  to  paint  the  thunder’s  face.  The  thunder 
has  no  face.  It  is  a  voice.  And  it  puts  its  brazen 
bugle  to  its  lips  and  puffs  its  huge  cheeks  wide 
out,  and  then  it  seems  as  if  the  very  heavens  had 
lost  their  rivets  and  crushed  down  the  sky.  The 
prophets  have  no  face,  but  only  a  voice.  What 
ails  the  prophets  that  they  are  still? 

Now,  Malachi  stands  on  a  mountain,  leaning 
far  forward  and  looking  not  backward — the 
gospel  never  looks  backward — but  forward.  Our 
golden  era  is  in  front.  The  atheist’s  golden  era 
is  death  and  dull,  damp-browed  yesterday. 
Malachi  is  looking  forward,  off  a  cliff;  looking 
forward  a  hundred  years — aye,  two;  aye,  three; 
aye,  four  hundred  years.  And  what  is  yonder? 
One  long  space — desert.  Not  a  voice,  not  a  whis¬ 
per,  not  a  calling  of  the  bird  of  the  morning,  not 
the  ecstasy  of  the  lute,  not  the  drip  of  a  harp. 
Silence.  And  then  another  cliff,  red  as  the  bleak 
shoulders  of  Judeea’s  hills,  and  on  that  far-off 
cliff  another,  and  he  says,  “I  am  the  voice.”  And 


136 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Malachi  looks  away  into  desert  dust  and  smoke. 
What  ails  the  prophets  that  they  are  still? 

I  submit  that  they  may  be  quiet  because  they 
are  talked  out.  Blessed  is  the  speaker  who 
knows  when  he  is  through.  Don’t  let  this  people 
“Amen.”  But  was  there  not  substance  for 
prophecy  in  those  four  hundred  years?  Yes.  Was 
it  an  eventless  four  hundred  years?  No.  Was  it 
deserted  of  great  occupants?  No.  In  that  four 
hundred  years,  from  Malachi  to  the  Voice,  John, 
there  came  the  invasion  of  Alexander  the  Great. 
There  came  the  rise  of  Ptolemies  in  Egypt.  There 
came  the  dominancy  of  the  Seleucidse.  There  came 
those  bloody,  tragical,  splendid  battles  of  the 
Maccabees.  There  came  the  rise  of  the  Asmonean 
dynasty,  which,  committed  horrid  deeds,  and 
culminated  in  the  wicked,  horrid  Herod.  And  so 
you  will  observe  that  it  was  not  because  there  was 
no  substance  for  story  in  the  four  hundred  years 
that  a  poet  lifted  not  a  pen.  And  it  was  not  be¬ 
cause  there  was  no  theme  for  oratory  that  the 
orator  lifted  no  voice.  What  ails  the  prophets 
that  they  are  still?  And  the  answer,  still  I  say, 
might  be  that  they  are  talked  out.  They  have 
told  their  story.  They  have  rehearsed  all  the 
points  in  their  oration.  They  have  gone  clean 
across  the  wide  range  of  theme  that  possessed 
them.  Maybe  they  are  through.  Maybe  they 
have  said  all  they  had  seen. 

What  have  they  been  doing?  Leaning,  looking 


THE  HUSHED  PROPHETS 


137 


for  the  Face.  What  have  they  been  doing?  Lean¬ 
ing,  listening  for  the  Voice;  telling  of  the  faces 
they  saw  and  telling  of  the  voices  they  heard. 
And  now,  maybe,  they  could  get  no  nearer  view 
of  the  Face  and  no  more  authentic  hearing  of  the 
Voice.  Maybe  by  no  expert  stenography  could 
they  put  down  one  single  jot  or  tittle  more  of  the 
divine  thought  which  could  swim  into  their 
heart,  like  the  seas  run  up  the  yellow  shore  when 
the  tide  is  full  and  would  return  nevermore  to 
the  sea.  They  would  not  gabble  nor  babble  like 
a  brook,  only  speak  when  there  was  something  to 
say,  when  their  hearts  burn,  when  their  shoulders 
ache,  when  authentic  prophecy  crushed  them  to 
the  ground;  when  there  must  be  voices  or  they 
die;  and  then  they  said,  “God  hath  said  it.”  The 
silence  may  have  been  because  they  had  spoken 
all  they  had  seen  and  all  they  had  heard. 

Maybe  they  were  silent  because  they  had  fully 
mapped  out  the  geography  of  the  future.  This 
is  an  intelligent  company  and  I  need  not  there¬ 
fore  amplify;  but  I  say  this,  that  the  ethics  of 
the  world  are  what  those  prophets  were  making. 
They  were  not  on  some  side  road  leading  to  a 
nook  in  the  mountains  or  the  woods;  they  were 
not  on  some  bypath  that  led  to  no  important 
whither.  These  prophets,  whether  it  was  a  shep¬ 
herd  or  herdsman,  whether  Israel’s  king  or 
Jeremiah  in  the  pit,  arm  deep  in  the  prison  mud, 
were  all  sure  that  the  road  they  walked  was 
walking  into  the  centuries.  They  were  planning 


138 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


with  God  for  the  future;  they  were  telling  the 
authentic  principles  of  the  ethics  that  dare 
abide.  Socrates’  ethics  are  all  gone.  We  will  not 
have  them.  Plato’s  ethics  are  a  jest. 

The  ethics  of  Solon  are  all  vanished.  But  the 
ethics  of  the  Book  of  God — they  are  on  the  codes 
of  the  Christianized  world  to-day;  they  will  be 
more  indelibly  on  them  to-morrow.  Not  one 
single  item  vanishes  from  the  Decalogue.  Not  one 
single  item  vanishes  from  the  thinking  of  the 
world;  not  one  single  voice  from  Sinai  to  Calvary 
that  vanishes  from  the  thinking  of  the  world. 
These  men  had  poured  out  in  such  a  lavish 
wonder  of  might  as  astonished  the  earth.  They 
had  poured  out  such  a  consummate  idea  as  this, 
that  in  the  heavens  was  God  and  in  the  earth  was 
the  same  God;  one  God  on  the  earth  and  one 
God  in  the  heavens,  and  the  God  of  the  earth 
and  the  God  of  the  heavens  was  the  Father  of 
man,  and  that  man  must  mind  God,  and  that 
God  would  look  to  man,  and  that  man’s  destiny 
lay  in  God,  and  that  God  would  not  forget  him 
in  the  shadows  at  the  edge  of  the  earth  or  the 
fringes  of  eternity.  But  if  man  listened  to  God 
who  made  him,  then  peace  that  floweth  like  a 
river  and  rapture  that  singeth  like  the  singing  of 
the  sea  would  come  into  the  heart.  Oh,  that  was 
gospel,  was  it?  I  marvel  at  it.  With  what  divine 
insistency  these  prophets  said,  “Behave,  behave, 
behave!”  Elijah  said  it  with  the  hack  of  the 
sword ;  Elisha  said  it  with  a  sound  of  a  kiss,  David 


THE  HUSHED  PROPHETS 


139 


said  it  with  the  sweet  drip  of  music,  but  said  it. 
Behave,  behave,  behave!  Mind  God.  Mind  God. 
Thou  shalt  not  do  that  which  shall  pollute  thy 
neighbor.  Keep  thy  heart  in  tune  with  the  Infinite. 
Not  an  impersonal,  aerial,  skyey  infinite,  not  that; 
not  keeping  in  tune  with  a  silly  infinite,  but 
keeping  in  tune  with  a  divine  Infinite  whose 
breath  is  life  and  whose  hands  are  full  of  resurrec¬ 
tion,  and  whose  eyes  are  filled  with  day  dawns 
on  the  hills.  Oh  prophets,  what  quiets  you?  They 
said,  “We  have  told  all  we  know.”  Blessed  is  the 
man  who  keeps  still  when  he  is  not  sure  what  to 
say  next;  also  blessed  is  the  woman.  Now,  blessed 
are  the  folks  who  dare  to  speak  things,  dare  to 
certify  truths  on  whose  altars  they  dare  to  die. 
Oh  prophets,  speak  again!  Not  a  voice.  All 
mute — all  mute. 

The  prophets,  mayhap,  are  hushed  because  the 
remote  nearness  of  Jesus  smote  them  dumb.  I 
would  have  you  think  of  that.  Four  hundred 
years  to  bridge,  but  because  they  saw  him 
coming  in  that  remote  nearness.  Silent!  Oh 
prophets,  speak!  And  they  are  all  on  their  faces, 
and  their  hands  are  on  their  lips,  and  they  do  not 
even  look  up.  They  hear  his  coming  and  are 
still.  So  far  away,  and  yet  the  presence  of  him 
brings  quiet. 

Have  you  sometimes  seen,  sisters,  brothers, 
when  before  the  coming  of  the  tempest  the  birds 
were  mute?  Every  singing  bird  silent,  the  chip- 


140 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


ping  sparrows  still;  the  linnet  puts  its  lute  away; 
the  red  breast  robin  flings  his  lyre  among  the 
grasses  and  is  still.  What  ails  the  birds  that  they 
are  quiet  grown?  The  tempest  comes.  Prophets 
— quit?  And  the  answer  is  that  there  cometh 
something  majestical  that  puts  all  manner  of 
music  mute.  O  Christ! 

And  I  call  you  to  witness  that  this  Malachi  man 
— this  man  whose  face  we  cannot  catch,  whose 
figure  we  cannot  see,  whose  presence  we  are  sure 
of — stands,  like  some  colossal  figure,  on  the 
summit  of  the  hills,  whoever  looks  and  sees 
Christ.  And  this  last  chapter  of  Malachi  says, 
“Sun  of  Righteousness,”  and  then  silence,  silence. 
Four  hundred  years,  no  prophet.  Four  hundred 
years,  and  then  there  came  a  singing  mother.  Ah, 
now!  Ah,  now!  Has  the  prophet  given  way  to 
the  woman?  Yes.  What  woman?  The  mother 
woman.  The  shouting  prophet  still,  the  clamor¬ 
ing  prophet  still,  the  fighting  prophet  still,  the 
ecstatic  prophet  still;  and  then  hush,  hush!  And 
there  is  a  woman  singing  a  lullaby,  and  she 
dreams  a  Babe  is  on  her  heart,  and  she  holds 
her  arms  folded,  as  she  did  when  she  was  a  girl 
a-nursing  of  her  dolly  in  the  dusk.  And  she 
is  singing  a  lullaby  to  such  strange  music  as 
shakes  the  very  heavens.  And  she  is  saying: 
“God  hath  exalted  me  that  I  should  be  the 
mother  of  his  Son.”  Lullaby!  Oh  lullaby,  lullaby! 
Oh  lullaby!  And  then  the  singing  angels  singing: 
“He  is  come.  He  is  here.  He  hath  come  and  he 


THE  HUSHED  PROPHETS 


141 


is  here.”  And  the  angels  quit  their  singing.  Oh 
prophets!  And  they  are  all  still;  but  they  were 
all  listeners  to  the  mother’s  song  and  the  angels’ 
song.  It  was  that  they  spoke  and  it  was  toward 
that  they  looked,  though  they  knew  not  all  they 
spoke.  And  the  angels’  singing  dripped  out  of 
the  sky;  and  the  last  radiant  drop  of  wondrous 
music  splashed  to  the  earth;  and  the  angels  were 
gone.  And  still  they  caught  the  mother  music 
ringing;  and  in  her  arms  now  was  not  a  dream 
Babe,  but  a  baby  Babe.  And  she  leaned  over, 
as  mothers  do  and  have  done  since  motherhood 
began,  and  will  do  as  long  as  motherhood  abides. 
And  she  was  kissing  its  cheeks  and  taking  the 
honey  from  its  lips,  and  she  was  singing:  “Oh 
my  Son!  Lullaby!  Lullaby!” 

What  wonder  the  prophets  were  still  when  the 
mother  had  singing  on  her  lips!  “I  am  mother 
of  God’s  Son.”  Still. 

Maybe  they  were  hushed  because  they  saw  the 
sunrise;  and  if  you  will  read  this  chapter  out  of 
which  I  read,  and  out  of  whose  strange,  pellucid 
well  I  dip  a  cup  of  water  to  pour  out  before  your 
hearts,  you  will  see  that  it  says,  “Sun  of  right¬ 
eousness”  will  “arise  with  healing  in  his  wings.” 

Maybe  the  prophets  are  still  because  out  of 
that  dark  they  see  the  morning,  and  where  they 
held  a  candle  out  there  God  hath  lit  a  sun.  Ah, 
now!  O  you  Moses  and  you  Ezekiel,  and  you 
Daniel,  and  you  Zechariah,  and  you  retinue  of  men, 
what  ails  you,  looking  up?  Ah,  and  Malachi  sings; 


142 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


and,  honor  bright,  I  can  hear  the  trumpet  voice 
of  him  trilling  through  the  centuries.  Heard  you 
Tennyson  say, 

“Blow,  bugle,  blow. 

Send  the  wild  echoes  flying. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow”? 

It  is  a  trivial  bugle;  throw  it  into  the  river 
or  the  sea.  But  blow  upon  thy  bugle,  Malachi! 
And  he  says,  “The  sun  is  up.  The  sun  is  up. 
Hurry — sunup.”  That  is  enough,  Malachi.  Come, 
sit  silent  forever,  Malachi.  No  more  words  from 
you.  You  have  told  it  all.  It  was  dark  night; 
now  it  is  daylight.  “Shall  the  Sun  of  righteous¬ 
ness  arise  with  healing  in  his  wings?”  Sunup; 
sunup.  O  Moses,  O  David,  O  Daniel,  O  Malachi! 
Say,  what  is  the  word?  Sunup;  sunup  forever! 
Sunup  that  hath  no  sunset,  but  only  noon.  Ah, 
well,  keep  still  forever.  You  need  no  other  voice. 
Quiet. 

Maybe  the  prophets  are  silent  because  their 
music  was  so  commonplace.  They  heard  the 
heaven  lute  playing.  The  Word!  There  had  been 
a  voice;  the  prophet  was  the  voice.  And  the 
voice,  it  was  an  echo  calling;  only  the  Voice 
which  makes  the  echo  is  singing.  No,  no,  we  need 
the  Voice  more  than  the  echo.  And  the  organist 
plays,  and  he  does  well  to  play.  He  has  an 
instrument  of  strange  resources  in  the  realm 
called  melody.  He  chants,  he  sobs,  and  has 
wedding  march  in  the  pedals  and  the  stops.  Oh 
organist,  lift  and  lower,  lift  and  lower.  Oh 


THE  HUSHED  PROPHETS 


148 


organist!  But  listen,  brothers,  sisters:  suppose 
the  organist’s  organ  were  beside  the  sea;  and 
suppose  he  played  his  strange  deep  music  till 
those  that  listened  sobbed;  and  then  suppose 
that  the  organ  of  the  sea  began  to  play  and  the 
stops  of  the  organ  were  pulled  out  and  the  tremolo 
began  to  play,  and  the  lyric  voice  began  to  sing, 
and  the  great,  deep-breathed  orchestral  music  of 
the  mighty  waves  began  to  lift  and  swell  and 
swell  and  swing.  If  the  great  organist  God  upon 
the  great  organ,  the  ocean,  began  to  play,  what 
would  the  organist  with  his  man-made  organ  do? 
He  would  take  his  fingers  from  the  keys  and  his 
feet  from  the  pedals  and  would  be  mute,  because 
the  organ  of  the  ocean  was  playing  deep  and  long, 
wild  and  swelling  notes  of  freedom,  rising  notes 
of  clamorous  wonder,  great  gulps  of  sobbing 
choking  in  the  throat,  and  spilling  in  a  cry.  O 
organ,  organ,  organ!  Swing  and  swell  and  sing 
and  call!  O  organist,  why  are  your  idle  fingers 
lying  on  the  keys,  and  your  idle  feet  hanging 
limp  beside  the  pedals,  and  touching  them  not? 
And  with  his  face  pale  with  the  wonder  and  the 
music  of  the  organist  God  and  the  organ  of  the 
sea,  he  says,  “They  have  put  all  of  my  music 
out.”  And  these  prophets  heard  Christ  talking. 
And  who  is  Moses,  and  who  is  Elijah,  and  who  is 
Elisha,  and  who  is  Daniel,  and  who  is  Nehemiah, 
and  who  is  Amos?  Where  are  all  of  them?  They 
have  all  stopped  playing;  they  won’t  play  a  note 
for  four  hundred  years.  Christ  hath  put  his 


144 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


fingers  on  the  keys  and  his  feet  upon  the  pedals, 
and  he  is  playing.  Listen!  Listen!  What  chant 
is  that?  “Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and 
are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.  Come 
unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest.” 

Prophets!  They  are  hushed  as  death;  but  the 
organist  Christ  is  playing,  and  the  tune  is,  “Come 
unto  me,  all  ye  that  are  tired,  and  I  will  give 
you  rest” — a  pillow  for  your  head,  a  staff  for 
your  journey,  a  bed  for  your  dying,  a  sob  for 
your  sorrow,  a  song  for  your  grief,  an  open  door 
at  the  end  of  the  dark  of  life  into  the  daydawn 
and  the  rapture  of  glory.  O  prophets,  you  did 
well  to  be  still. 

And  the  organist  Christ  is  playing  yet,  “Come 
unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest.” 

And  the  prophets  all  are  hushed  but  the 
Christ’s  voice  and  music  are  not  hushed  yet,  nor 
will  be  to-morrow  nor  will  be  forever,  and  for¬ 
ever,  and  forever,  Amen! 

Prayer:  O  God,  our  Christ,  we  love  thee  this 
morning  and  bless  thee  that,  though  the  prophets 
have  been  modest  enough  to  be  quiet  because 
they  knew  the  Christ  was  coming,  and  now  that  the 
Christ  hath  come  there  need  be  no  other  voice 
save  Christ.  Help  us  to  hear  the  Voice  and  catch 
its  music  and  see  the  morning  and  be  glad. 


PRAYER 


O  Lord,  we  humbly  bless  thee  that  thou  art  so  beyond 
all  measure  in  thy  kindness,  in  thy  justness,  in  thy  holiness, 
in  thy  love.  Our  gratitude  can  never  equal  what  thou  art 
and  what  thou  hast  been  and  what  thou  dost.  Sometimes 
when  we  think  how  incapacitated  our  gratitude  is  it  grieves 
us  and  shames  us  and  abases  us,  and  then  again  we  think 
of  this  other  matter,  that  thou  art  so  great  in  thy  benefits 
toward  us  that  we  cannot  equal  thy  generosity  without  love; 
then  we  thank  God  and  take  courage  and  love  thee  because 
of  thy  love  to  us  that  has  been  unspeakable  all  our  lives. 

God  loves  us.  He  loves  us  so  much  he  cares  whether  we 
fail  or  not;  he  cares  whether  we  love  him  or  not;  he  cares 
whether  we  want  him  or  not,  and  when  we  give  this  matter 
a  little  thought,  even  this  it  is  that  saves  us  from  being 
common  folks.  We  are  uncommon  folks  because  God 
loves  us. 

And  we  bless  thee,  O  our  God,  that  thou  hast  come  down 
through  the  centuries  to-day  to  this  house  of  the  service  of 
Christ.  May  we  have  come  to  meet  God  and  may  we  meet 
him  for  whom  we  have  come.  Whatever  our  hearts  may  be, 
however  hard  they  may  be,  however  engrossed  in  business 
they  may  be;  however  surfeited  with  pleasure  they  may 
be;  however  frivolous  and  foolish  our  desires  may  be,  O 
God,  to-day  may  we  come  up  into  God’s  presence;  to-day 
may  we  come  up  into  God’s  love;  to-day  may  our  hearts  be 
broken  with  the  touch  of  the  finger  of  God,  may  our  hearts 
be  melted  to  love,  and  may  our  lives  be  melted  to  forgive¬ 
ness.  O  God,  if  anyone  has  wronged  us,  help  us  to  forgive 
him  to-day;  if  anybody  has  been  specially  unkind,  help  us 
to  forget  it  and  to  forgive  him  to-day;  if  anybody  has  bruised 
us  without  cause,  help  us  to  forget  that  to-day.  O  Lord, 
may  this  day  be  notable  with  us  because  we  have  entered 
into  conspiracy  with  God  to  be  better  than  we  have  been, 
to  love  him  more,  to  love  people  more,  to  lead  a  holier  life, 
a  more  lovable  life,  a  more  generous  life,  and  to  forgive 
people  so  that  God  may  be  able  to  forgive  us. 

Bless  us,  O  Lord.  Bless  our  big  city.  Bless  our  big 
nation.  Help  everybody  to  move  toward  God,  so  that  the 
city  and  the  country  may  become  the  country  and  city  of 
God’s  love.  Bless  our  choir  to-day,  and  while  they  sing 
these  songs  and  while  they  lead  the  congregation  in  the 
singing,  may  the  blessed  calm  of  the  blessed  Christ  abide 
in  their  hearts  and  may  they  have  a  joyous  song  within 
their  hearts  and  gladness  in  the  experience  of  God.  Amen. 

146 


X 


A  PARABLE 

“Another  parable  put  lie  forth.” — Matt.  13.  21^. 

I  will  pronounce  a  parable. 

A  tall  angel  stood  on  the  earth  alone.  There 
was  not  a  touch  of  greenery  on  all  the  landscape 
far  or  near.  The  angel’s  face  was  like  the  light, 
and  his  garments  were  woven  sunbeams,  and  he 
stood  very  tall  and  very  serene,  and  when  he 
spread  his  wings  abroad  it  was  like  the  spreading 
abroad  of  a  white  summer’s  cloud.  And  in  the 
angel’s  right  hand  there  was  a  kernel  of  wheat, 
and  in  his  left  hand  an  acorn  in  the  cup.  And 
the  angel  held  dialogue  with  the  grain  of  wheat, 
and  this  was  the  saying  of  it: 

“The  king  of  all  this  country  designs  to  place 
some  of  his  children  here,  and  leave  them  for  a 
space  of  years.  They  are  now  dwelling  in  his 
upper  country,  where  it  is  daylight  all  the  year 
round  and  all  the  day  through,  but  because  it  is 
better  for  them  here,  and  because  he  designs  that 
they  learn  the  art  of  making  a  livelihood,  he 
purposes  to  place  them  on  this  earth.  But  that 
he  may  make  this  hazard  he  must  have  bread  for 
them;  and  you  are  the  prospective  bread  the 
king  means  to  give  to  his  children.  And  there 

will  doubtless  be  great  multitudes  of  them  first 

147 


148 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


and  last,  millions  and  millions  more  and  still 
millions  besides,  and  on  you  must  rest  the  toil 
and  care  and  service  of  feeding  this  great 
multitude.” 

And  the  kernel  of  wheat  said  to  the  angel:  “It 
is  beyond  the  compass  of  my  little  power.  I  am 
but  one.  I  am  all  alone.  I  am  so  little  that 
hundreds  of  me  would  not  give  one  of  his  babies 
a  breakfast,  much  less  feed  the  great  multitudes.” 

And  the  angel  said,  “What  the  king  commands 
that  can  be  done.” 

But  the  grain  of  wheat  said:  “Who  am  I  to 
feed  so  great  a  multitude?  And  what  can  my 
poorness  do  with  so  vast  a  table  spread  for  so 
great  a  company?  I  am  not  equal  to  it.” 

And  still  the  angel  smiled  and  said,  “What  the 
king  commands  that  can  be  done.” 

And  the  kernel  of  wheat  said,  “Then,  if  the 
king  commands  me,  I  will  try.” 

And  the  angel  smiled  and  his  face  was  like 
morning  when  the  sun  is  fresh  in  the  eastern  sky, 
and  he  took  the  kernel  of  wheat  and  sowed  it  in 
the  earth  and  covered  it  over  with  the  dirt.  And 
the  wheat  lost  all  hope,  for  the  darkness  was  so 
dense  after  he  had  seen  the  angel’s  face,  and  in 
the  gloomy  earth  day  in,  night  out,  always  night 
to  the  kernel  of  wheat.  And  in  its  heart  it  said, 
“I  cannot;  I  shall  die;  I  shall  see  the  daylight 
no  more.” 

And  then,  in  the  breast  of  the  wheat  kernel 
there  came  a  pain  like  the  stabbing  of  a  spear  at 


A  PARABLE 


149 


a  brave  man’s  heart,  and  on  a  sudden  up  from 
out  the  heart  of  the  red  wheat  grain  came  a  spear 
of  green,  and  peered  above  the  ground  and  ran 
out  into  the  dew  and  was  watered  by  the  dew 
and  rain  and  shined  on  by  the  mercy  of  daylight 
and  the  gladness  of  moonlight,  and  it  grew  and 
still  grew  up  into  the  air,  and  was  the  one  green 
thing  in  all  the  landscape  from  sky  to  sky;  the 
solitary  trick  of  greenery  was  the  small  spear  of 
growing  wheat.  And  by  and  by  it  grew  into  a 
stalk,  and  by  and  by  stood  tall  and  stately  and 
waved  to  and  fro  at  the  beckoning  of  the  wind. 
And  by  and  by  upon  its  crest  there  came  a  head 
of  wheat,  strange  in  its  arabesque  and  beautiful 
exceedingly,  as  if  carven  by  some  strange,  gifted 
carver  for  a  king.  And  then,  as  the  days  passed 
and  the  summer  spent  its  life,  this  head  of  wheat 
grew  strangely  golden  and  exceedingly  ruddy. 
And  so  the  winds  rocked  it  to  and  fro  and  scattered 
its  grains  out  upon  the  ground,  and  then  instead 
of  one  grain,  there  were  hundreds. 

Then  there  came  the  autumnal  brawling  of  the 
tempests  and  the  swirling  of  the  wind  and  the 
hundreds  of  wheat  grains  lay  under  the  dis¬ 
pensation  of  the  stormy  tides  of  winter.  And 
sometimes  in  their  hearts  they  sobbed  as  if  they 
did  not  think  they  could  live.  But  by  and  by 
the  rushing  tramp  of  the  winter  was  past,  and 
the  fury  of  the  gales  sounded  their  bugles  no 
longer  in  their  ears,  and  then  came  the  mercy  of 
the  spring  and  the  soft  south  winds.  And  above 


150 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


the  ground  came  hundreds  of  spears  of  wheat. 
And  thus  the  story  rehearsed  itself  year  by  year 
and  year  by  year,  until  at  last  a  wide  plain  of 
the  world  that  once  was  only  a  desert,  barren  as 
the  barren  sky,  waved  to  the  witchery  of  the 
wind  and  tossed  hundreds  and  thousands — aye, 
a  million — harvests  and  filled  the  granaries  of  the 
world.  And  then  the  king’s  children  came  and 
sat  them  down  at  the  banquet  of  the  king’s 
table. 

And  the  smiling  angel  said  to  the  kernel  of 
wheat:  “Told  I  not  you  what  the  king  com¬ 
manded,  that  could  be  achieved?” 

And  then  the  king’s  children  put  the  wheat 
into  the  earth  again  and  harrowed  it  and  spiked 
into  his  heart  with  the  teeth  of  the  harrow,  and 
the  days  and  nights,  rain  and  shine,  came  and 
went,  and  the  wheat  grew  tall.  And  then  the 
king’s  children  thrust  in  the  sickle  and  the  wheat 
stalk  felt  the  pain  from  fierce  smiting  of  the 
sickle  as  if  of  the  point  of  a  sword.  And  the 
golden  glory  of  the  wheat  field  lay  low  against 
the  ground,  and  it  seemed  as  if  all  its  beauty 
were  desolated  forever.  And  then  the  king’s 
children  took  the  wheat  so  sawn  asunder  from  its 
rich  rootage  in  the  ground  and  hammered  it  with 
flails  till  every  kernel  of  wheat  felt  the  stroke. 
And  the  king’s  children  took  the  grains  and  flung 
them  in  the  mill  and  the  mills  ground  hard  and 
furious,  hard  and  furious,  and  bit  the  kernels  of 
wheat  into  fine  dust,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  dust 


A  PARABLE 


151 


were  so  fine  the  springtime’s  wind  would  blow 
the  dust  away  and  not  leave  any  food  for  any 
king’s  children.  And  then  the  king’s  children 
took  the  dust  of  the  kernel  of  wheat  and  burned 
it  in  a  furious  oven  and  poured  the  fire  blast  on 
it,  and  the  wheat  felt  in  its  heart,  “There  is  no 
to-morrow,  and  there  can  be  no  service.”  But 
out  of  all  this  tribulation  grew  the  breadstuffs  of 
the  world,  and  the  king’s  children  waxed  fat,  and 
the  babies  smiled,  and  the  world  laughed  because 
the  one  grain  of  wheat  had  done  its  master’s 
bidding. 

This  is  the  parable  of  the  wheat  grain.  Life 
must  always  be  as  the  grain  of  wheat.  Every  man 
and  every  woman  can  find  a  hundred  reasons 
why  he  is  so  insufficient  he  cannot  achieve  the 
high  designs  of  God.  Our  arms  are  not  armed  to 
do  the  Master’s  bidding;  our  fingers  are  futile. 
We  know  not  how  to  finger  at  the  harp  nor  how 
to  wake  the  organ  into  streams  of  music.  We 
know  not  how  to  drive  the  sword  or  thrust  the 
sickle  or  thrust  the  plowshare  in.  We  are  so 
weak  and  so  incompetent  and  the  hazard  of  it 
is  so  severe  that  the  fear  eats  into  the  heart  and 
toil  will  not  come  at  the  command  of  our  weak 
endeavor.  But  did  you  not  mark,  men  and 
women,  that  the  glory  behind  the  little  is  that 
God  hath  ordered  it?  And  when  the  king  com¬ 
mands,  then  a  man  must  dare  aspire  to  do. 

And  in  life  there  is  much  pain  and  in  life  there 
is  much  darkness;  and  as  the  wheat  grain  found, 


152 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


every  good  life  finds.  There  shall  be  darkness; 
the  shadows  thicken  and  the  dirt  piles  over  us 
as  in  a  grave,  and  then  we  esteem  there  shall  be 
no  resurrection  and  no  bright  to-morrow.  And 
then  the  rains  pound  down  upon  us  and  the 
sullen  storms  wash  over  us  like  the  waves  of  some 
omnipotent  sea,  and  we  say  we  shall  come  to  no 
to-morrow.  But,  O,  heart,  heart,  if  the  grain  of 
wheat  got  by  and  by  to  be  the  breadstuffs  of  the 
world,  and  if  out  of  the  exceedingly  little  wheat 
grain  God  brings  the  banquet  for  the  king’s  chil¬ 
dren,  do  you  not  understand  that  out  of  your  pov¬ 
erty  of  might  there  may  be  established  a  strange 
vigor  that  neighbors  on  omnipotence?  We  are  here 
to  mind  the  king.  When  the  king  commands  we 
dare  aspire.  Heart  and  brain,  what  the  king 
orders,  that  do  not  fear  doing.  We  are  not  so 
weak  but  that  with  the  established  order  of  the 
commandings  of  the  king  we  shall  achieve  great 
matters. 

And  we  shall  be  bedded  in  the  earth  as  it  will 
seem;  and  we  shall  be  cut  with  the  sickle  till  the 
blood  drips  from  the  heart  and  face;  and  we  shall 
be  ground  between  the  upper  and  the  nether 
millstones  of  pains  and  toil  and  unrequited  effort; 
and  men  shall  jeer  us  down  and  some  shall  hate 
us  and  some  essay  to  slay  us;  but  the  grinding 
wheels  shall  grind  away  as  they  ground  the  kernel 
into  the  dust  of  flour;  and  we  shall  be  put  into 
the  fierce  heats  that  try  the  soul,  but  out  of  it, 
bless  God  and  by  his  mercy,  there  shall  come 


A  PARABLE 


153 


help  for  the  world.  You  must  not  wonder  that 
the  smiling  angel  looked  at  the  kernel  of  wheat 
he  held  in  his  hand  and  said  to  it  over  and  yet 
over  once  again,  “They  who  obey  the  king  bring 
service.” 

And  in  the  angeFs  other  hand  there  was  an 
acorn.  And  across  all  the  hills  and  slant  of  many 
mountains  and  down  the  long,  lone  valleys  and 
over  the  wide  plains  there  was  not  the  single 
shadow  of  a  single  shrub  and  not  a  single  tree 
branch  waved  against  the  wind  and  made  nesting 
place  for  any  bird.  And  the  angel  looked  at  the 
acorn  and  held  controversy  with  it  and  said, 
“The  king  needs  shadow,  and  the  king  needs 
ships,  and  the  king  needs  houses,  and  the  king 
needs  thee.” 

And  the  acorn  in  its  cup  said:  “I  am  one  and 
trivial,  and  such  things  as  you  design  and  the 
king  desires  are  far  and  away  and  beyond  me. 
What  can  I  do?  I  pray  you  have  me  excused.” 

And  the  angel  smiled  and  looked  at  the  acorn 
in  its  cup  and  said,  “What  the  king  ordered  that 
do  you  do.” 

And  then  the  acorn  said,  “Let  the  king  do 
with  me  what  he  will.” 

And  then  the  angel  took  and  dropped  the  acorn 
down  beside  a  stone,  and  the  dust  of  the  stone 
fell  on  it,  and  the  blowings  of  the  wind  brought 
fresh  deposits  of  soil  around  it.  And  when  the 
winter  passed  and  the  springtime  came,  up  above 
the  soil  of  rock  and  earth  there  came  the  ruddi- 


154 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


ness  of  two  trivial  oak  leaves  that  leaned  together 
and  later  stood  aloft  to  meet  the  kisses  of  the 
dew.  And  then  the  acorn  cup  smiled  grimly  and 
said,  “How  shall  I  make  shadow  and  branches 
for  the  birds  to  build  their  nests,  and  how  out  of 
me  shall  be  made  houses  for  the  many,  and  how 
out  of  me  shall  be  contrived  the  keels  to  the  great 
ocean-going  ships  ?” 

And  the  years  came  and  went,  and  went  and 
came,  and  the  winds  were  angry  because  clean 
across  the  world  they  had  found  nothing  to 
antagonize  their  goings  until  now.  And  now  a 
sapling  with  a  curious  leaf  flung  up  in  antagon¬ 
ism  to  the  storm  winds  blowing  in  the  stormy 
sky,  and  they  leaned  out  and  whipped  with 
their  arms,  and  all  the  stormy  winds  rushed 
out,  and  the  weary  winds  of  the  stormy  North 
said:  “Make  way;  we  own  the  earth!  Make 
way!”  And  still  the  oak  sapling  wagged  against 
the  wind  and  was  not  broken.  And  as  years 
came  and  went  the  bole  grew  great.  And  as  the 
years  passed  the  arms  of  the  oak  tree  spread 
against  the  mighty  sky;  and  it  looked  up  and 
saw  through  the  lattices  of  the  leaves  the  amethyst 
wonder  of  the  heavens,  and  there  was  but  one 
oak  tree  on  all  the  earth,  one  oak.  And  on  all 
the  seas  there  were  no  ships  and  on  all  the  land 
there  were  no  houses,  and  in  his  hard  heart  the 
oak  tree  said:  “I  am  an  oak  tree,  truly,  but  who 
am  I  to  house  the  world  and  give  the  birds  place 
for  their  nests?  How  shall  I  do  this?” 


A  PARABLE 


155 


And  then  the  angel  stood  beside  and  said, 
“What  God  ordered  thou  hast  strength  to  do.” 

And  then  upon  one  summer’s  rosy  prime  there 
came  a  thousand  and  then  ten  thousand  of  shallow 
cups,  each  with  an  acorn  in  it,  and  when  the 
stormy  autumn  came  and  drove  on  its  course, 
then  these  acorns  were  blown  across  hundreds  of 
feet  of  ground.  “What  now?”  said  the  earth  to 
the  oak  tree.  And  then  came  the  storms  of  winter 
and  the  waters  drenched  the  ground  and  sent 
those  acorns  miles  and  hundreds  of  miles  around. 
And  then  in  the  end  a  great  oak  forest  grew. 

And  the  story  need  not  be  dwelt  upon  to  know 
that  in  time  to  come  the  one  acorn  in  its  hollow 
cup  grew  to  be  a  great  forest.  And  men  came, 
the  king’s  children,  and  said,  “We  must  have 
houses,”  and  they  took  the  brawny  acorn  tree’s 
wood  and  the  great  trunk  limbs  and  hewed  them 
out  into  palaces,  and  in  the  blaze  by  the  fire 
where  the  branches  burned,  the  king’s  children 
laughed  and  made  themselves  glad.  And  by  and 
by  when  the  seas  were  outrageous  and  no  man 
crossed  them,  then  the  king’s  children  thought  of 
the  oak  tree,  and  they  went  out  and  chopped  it 
and  brought  it  level  with  the  ground,  and  took 
it  for  keels  of  ships  on  the  sea.  And  through  the 
oak  tree’s  bulk,  by  and  by  across  hundreds  of 
seas  alive  with  tempests,  there  came  hundreds  of 
ships  that  no  leviathan  wave  could  break  nor  the 
ocean  rush  could  crush;  though  the  oak  beam 
cracked  it  did  not  break.  And  from  land  to  land, 


156 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


to  every  archipelago,  and  continent  to  continent 
the  seas  were  bridged  with  ships;  and  houses 
were  builded  across  the  world. 

And  the  king’s  children  had  calm  and  comfort, 
and  builded  houses  in  which  when  wearied  by 
excessive  toils  they  might  rest  in  great  security. 

And  then  the  smiling  angel  stood  and  looked 
the  oak  trees  of  the  bewildered  earth  in  the  face 
and  said,  6 ‘What  the  king  commanded,  did  you 
not  do?” 

Do  you  not  mark  by  the  oak  tree  sawn  asunder 
and  the  hacking  of  the  ax  upon  it,  and  all  its 
glory  of  shadow  and  song  laid  low,  and  the  things 
that  had  been  now  ceased  to  be,  and  into  its 
bark  and  beneath  it  and  into  its  very  heart  the 
hacking  ax-pain  came;  but  out  of  all  the  calamity 
of  it  there  came  the  world’s  comfort  and  the 
world’s  shelter  and  the  world’s  safety  and  the 
world’s  locomotion? 

Why,  men  and  women,  what  makes  this  story 
of  the  angel  with  the  acorn  and  the  wheat  kernel 
to  be  the  authentic  story  of  every  reputable  life 
that  ever  drew  breath?  We  are  here.  We  are 
here — children  only.  But  what  hinders  if  the  King 
have  use  for  us?  What  hinders  if  we  mind  the 
Master?  What  hinders  that  we  who  have  chil¬ 
dren’s  day  now  have  maturity  days?  What 
hinders  that  we  who  be  no  strength  now  be 
stronger  than  ten  strengths?  And  what  hinders 
that  we  who  are  served  now  shall  serve?  And 
what  hinders  that  we  who  are  rained  on  by  the 


A  PARABLE 


157 


rain  of  civilization,  and  we  who  are  rained  on  by 
the  sunshine  of  Christ — what  hinders  that  by  and 
by,  even  here  and  now,  we  ourselves  shall  be¬ 
come  vast  mercies  and  under  the  branching 
wonder  of  our  shadow  shall  men  have  comfort 
and  have  peace  and  fall  asleep  at  weary  noonday 
in  our  calm,  and  by  our  hands  shall  the  whole 
world  say  I  have  had  help?  Ah,  men  and  women, 
would  you  listen  to  the  parable  of  insignificance 
that  grew  vast  and  divine?  Would  you  hear  the 
cry  of  the  futile  and  the  incompetent  that  by 
and  by  lifted  itself  up  to  the  glory  unspeakable 
of  success? 

And  would  you  learn  the  lesson  that  the 
smiling  angel  said,  “What  the  king  ordered  can 
be  done”?  O  life,  thou  art  so  little,  but  shalt  be 
so  great!  O  strength,  thou  art  so  weak,  but  shalt 
be  so  mighty!  O  puny  arm,  one  twist  at  thy 
wrist  by  a  man’s  hand  could  break  thee,  but  a 
giant’s  arm  thou  shalt  become,  so  mighty  that 
the  hand  of  God  cannot  twist  thee  to  the  break¬ 
ing.  O  life,  life,  the  burning  noons  and  the 
snarling  storm  and  wild  winds  of  the  wicked 
North  all  past,  and  the  sunny  winds  of  the  sunny 
South  all  blown,  all  the  inclemencies,  all  the 
impotencies  of  the  desert  or  prairie  or  mountain 
or  beside  the  sea — what  matters  if  behind  it  all 
is  calling  the  King:  “I  need  thee.  I  need  thee"; 
and  if  behind  it  is  the  calling  of  the  King,  your 
Master,  “I  bid  thee”;  and  if  behind  it  all  there 
is  the  master  mind  of  my  God,  what  odds? 


158 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


And  the  smiling  angel  said,  “What  the  king 
commanded,  thou  canst  do.’5  And  the  golden 
kernel  of  wheat  which  was  like  a  golden  pebble 
that  a  little  child  found  glowing  in  the  sun,  came 
to  be  the  granary  of  the  world,  and  the  acorn, 
that  seemed  to  be  a  cunning  trick  of  some  dead 
lapidist,  came  to  be  the  amazing  shadow  and 
shelter  and  fire  and  the  shipping  of  the  earth. 

Life,  take  thy  little  load  and  run  thy  little 
best,  and  serve  thy  little  opportunity,  because 
out  of  it  shall  come  divine  to-morrows  and  days 
that  have  no  sunsets  nor  any  dark;  eternities 
wherein  thy  life  shall  be  service  and  thy  name 
shall  be  song,  and  thy  heart  shall  be  rapture,  and 
thine  experience  shall  be  peace.  And  the  universe 
of  life  shall  rise  up  and  look  in  thy  face  and  call 
thee  blessed. 

And  the  angel  with  his  spread  of  wings,  white 
and  billowy,  and  wonderful  like  spreading  wings 
of  a  summer  cloud,  shall  look  in  thy  face  and  smile 
with  that  smile  that  is  as  unevanescent  as  eternity, 
and  say,  “What  the  King  bids,  thou  canst  per¬ 
form.  And  when  the  King  commands,  take  thou 
his  command  for  thine  employment.”  And  by 
the  King’s  help,  we  will. 

Prayer  :  O  God,  let  the  parable  of  the  preacher 
on  the  kernel  of  wheat  and  the  acorn  sow  itself 
in  our  hearts  and  grow  up  wheat  fields  and  oak 
forests  for  the  feeding  and  shelter  of  the  hungry 
lives,  for  the  chastening  and  supporting  of  the 


A  PARABLE 


159 


life  in  which  we  are.  Help  thou  us,  0,  God,  out 
of  our  weakness  to  bring  forth  might  of  service 
and  hope  for  others  and  for  God,  for  Christ’s 
sake.  Amen. 


PRAYER 


Our  Lord  and  Saviour,  we  worship  and  rejoice.  We  al¬ 
ways  have  theme  for  rejoicing  and  worship  when  we  think  of 
thee.  We  are  thine.  Thou  hast  created  us  after  thy  like¬ 
ness,  and  when  we  lost  it  thou  didst  redeem  us  with  thine 
own  precious  blood.  We  belong  to  the  blood-washed.  We 
are  susceptible  of  great  things  and  divine  progress.  We 
shall  make  our  ultimate  abode  with  thee.  How  can  we  do 
other  than  worship  and  rejoice  on  remembrance  of  what, 
in  thee,  we  are  and  are  to  be? 

So  now,  manifest  thyself  to  our  hearts  which,  whatever 
their  failures,  still  pant  for  thee.  Our  tides  climb  thy 
shores.  We  know  where  we  belong  and  are  definitely  direc- 
tioned  for  eternity  to  be  like  thee  and  near  thee.  Wilt  thou 
consider  in  all  our  remissness  of  service  and  love  that  we 
never  waver  in  what  we  intend?  We  intend  to  love  thee 
utterly  and  serve  thee  bravely  and  encounter  the  beasts  of 
Ephesus  with  a  smile  and  do  our  allotted  work  in  the  spirit 
of  the  singing  Christ,  who,  when  he  went  out  to  die,  sang 
a  hymn  as  prelude  to  the  cross. 

Across  our  spirits  at  this  hour  fling  the  shining  shadow 
of  that  holy  cross  and  preempt  our  purposes  in  the  sublime 
manner  of  redemption,  and  wing  our  laggard  loves  toward 
thyself,  we  pray  in  Christ.  Amen. 


160 


XI 


THE  UNIVERSAL  BUILDER 

“For  every  house  is  builded  by  some  man;  but  he  that 
built  all  things  is  God.” — Heb.  3.  4.. 

What  stalwart  ways  of  putting  things  this 
Bible  has!  My  opinion  is  that  it  is  the  easiest 
book  to  remember  that  ever  was  written,  and 
this  grows  out  of  the  fact  that  it  drives  its  utter¬ 
ances  and  its  truths  home  through  the  brain  to 
the  heart  into  the  conscience,  like  Achilles  might 
have  sunk  his  spear  haft  deep  in  an  opponent’s 
body. 

Now,  who  wrote  the  book  of  Hebrews  is  not 
certain.  Paul  maybe,  Apollos  maybe,  or  some 
other;  but  this  thing  has  emphasis — that  whoever 
wrote  it  was  a  man  who  had  a  singular  grasp  on 
fundamental  truths  and  a  singular  sufficiency  in 
putting  those  truths  so  that  anybody  could  see 
them  and  practically  nobody  could  forget  them. 
And  this  man,  whatever  his  name,  looked  around 
the  world  in  which  he  was  a  citizen  and  saw 
every  sort  of  building  and  that  somebody  was  the 
architect  and  artisan  of  each.  He  saw  that  noth¬ 
ing  sprang  up  causelessly,  and  he  further  saw  that 
the  cause  of  the  world’s  habitations  was  not  a 
law,  nor  a  force,  but  always  a  man.  He  saw 

houses  built  for  domesticity;  he  saw  temples 

161 


162 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


built  for  worship;  he  saw  houses  built  for  car¬ 
avansaries  for  travelers;  he  saw  houses  built  as 
the  coliseum  for  the  games;  he  saw  houses  built 
as  homes  of  justice.  He  saw  that  always  with  a 
building  was  a  builder.  And  as  he  heard  the 
hammer  and  the  trowel  and  saw  the  mortar 
mixers  and  the  stonecutters  and  the  marble 
quarriers  and  the  roof  spreaders,  he  was  lured 
from  the  masonry  and  the  carpentry  he  saw  to 
the  masonry  and  carpentry  that  was  invisible  to 
him,  but  very  sure,  and  from  the  builder  of 
human  habitations  of  varied  designs  his  swift 
mind  ran  with  not  only  celerity  but  accuracy  to 
the  builder  of  the  universe.  He  was  a  logician. 
His  brain  worked.  He  saw  relationships  amongst 
things.  He  saw  that  the  vaster  was  not  author- 
less  any  more  than  the  inferior  was  authorless. 
He  perceived  with  a  bounding  pulse,  and,  I  think, 
with  a  clamorous  hallelujah,  that  behind  the 
artisans  we  saw  was  the  Artisan  we  did  not  see, 
and  behind  the  architects  we  saw  the  Architect 
we  did  not  see,  and  behind  the  puny  builders 
of  evanescent  things  was  the  omnific  Builder  of 
things  that  abide  forever. 

Now,  the  only  way  we  can  explain  the  single¬ 
ness  of  method  in  the  world  is  to  have  singleness 
of  Author  of  the  world.  If  there  had  been  many 
contrivers  of  this  world,  then,  in  nature,  there 
should  have  been  many  designs.  There  would 
have  been  a  thousand  fractures  and  fissures 
betwixt  one  thing  and  another.  We  had  failed 


THE  UNIVERSAL  BUILDER 


163 


of  cohesion.  We  had  missed  coherency.  Our 
speech  had  been  like  the  babble  of  a  drunkard 
rather  than  the  rational,  intelligent  reasoning  of 
the  sober  man  of  sober  mind. 

There  is  in  this  city  a  banquet  hall  which 
seems  to  me  very  beautiful.  If  it  had  occurred 
in  some  European  palace,  travel-mongers  would 
have  raved  over  it.  Some  of  us  only  rave  over 
things  European.  We  never  can  get  our  imagina¬ 
tion  to  a  state  of  inflammability  over  home 
products.  Unless  we  take  ship  to  find  them,  we 
don’t  think  them  worth  regard.  This  banquet 
hall  is  very  beautiful.  It  would  have  adorned  the 
interior  of  any  king’s  palace.  Some  artist  con¬ 
trived  it.  It  is  not  the  dream  of  congregated 
artists.  Somebody  had  it  in  his  blood  and  brain, 
and  all  things  are  contrived  from  all  parts,  and 
each  part  for  all  things.  The  chasteness  of  the 
pouring  on  of  gold;  the  limning  of  forms  that  stand 
out  as  if  their  own  invitality  had  been  touched 
with  vitality — these  things  do  not  proceed  from 
severalty  in  authorship,  but  when  things  radiate 
from  one  brain,  as  the  morning  radiates  from 
one  sun.  It  is  as  if  many  artists  of  fine  percep¬ 
tions  had  of  themselves  contrived  fine  designs  and 
each  had  swung  the  creation  of  his  intelligent 
imagination  and  pencil  or  chisel  upon  the  walls. 
As  the  melody  of  the  Parthenon  was  the  challenge 
of  Phidias’  dream,  and  the  Parthenon  sprang  out 
of  one  succession  of  lordly  conquerors  on  Olym- 


164 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


pian  days,  so  this  Chicago  banquet  chamber  has 
unity  of  authorship,  and,  therefore,  the  design, 
though  complex,  is  complete,  and  does  not  deny 
in  any  part  its  other  part. 

Here,  then,  is  this  world;  its  sky,  its  floor,  its 
lighting  facilities,  its  inhabitants,  its  climb  of 
mountains,  its  lean  and  spring  of  cliff,  its  maunder¬ 
ing  murk  of  sea,  its  rapture  of  daylight  deluged 
with  the  noon — all  these;  still  the  particulars  are 
beneficent  and  beautiful,  and  the  integration  of 
them  all  must  have  sprung  from  one  brain  and 
one  hand.  Here  is  man’s  body,  it  might  have 
been  ten  feet  high.  It  is  not.  The  very  insignifi¬ 
cant  detail  of  how  tall  people  grow  is  not  a 
fraction  of  some  curious  force  working  irrationally, 
but  it  is  the  direction  of  some  chief  architect. 
If  a  man  were  ten  feet  high,  where  would  we  get 
the  bedrooms  for  him?  If  he  were  ten  feet  high, 
how  would  we  arrange  the  diningroom  and  parlor 
for  him?  If  he  were  ten  feet  high,  how  would  we 
contrive  hat  racks  sufficient  for  his  altitude?  If  he 
were  ten  feet  high,  how  would  we  get  circumference 
for  his  head?  The  very  fact  that  man  is  able  to 
stop  growing  when  six  feet — only  once  in  a  while  a 
straggler  runs  up  toward  seven  feet,  just  to  show 
what  the  human  frame  might  do  if  it  forgot  to 
quit — just  because  we  are  familiar  with  these  ordi¬ 
nary  facts  of  life,  we  forget  that  there  is  a  profound 
reason  working  through  all.  And  why  the  human 
stature  stops  at  such  an  altitude  and  why  the 
human  stature  stops  at  such  a  circumference — those 


THE  UNIVERSAL  BUILDER 


165 


are  things  to  be  taken  into  account  with  the  sum 
total  of  things.  They  don’t  happen.  He  that 
made  the  human  figure  doubtless  had  an  eye  to  the 
human  house,  and  He  who  appropriated  material 
enough  for  his  world  to  grow  the  million  and  the 
million  inhabitants  of  his  earth,  took  into  ac¬ 
count  symmetry  and  the  human  occupancy  of 
human  houses.  He  who  built  the  world  adjusted 
the  man  who  was  to  be  its  resident  with  reference 
to  the  bulk  of  the  world.  If  a  huger  man  had  been 
put  on  this  earth,  he  would  have  been  logy;  if  a 
lesser  man  had  been  put  on  this  world  he  would 
have  been  blown  away  with  a  windstorm.  The 
fact  of  the  bulk  of  the  world,  and  the  other  fact 
of  the  bulk  of  man,  are  associated,  not  simply 
details,  but  relationships,  that  never  can  be 
omitted  from  the  careful  thinking  of  careful 
minds,  and  the  reason  why  man’s  bulk  is  appro¬ 
priate  to  man’s  earthly  house  is  that  He  who 
builded  the  house  and  he  who  builded  the  tenant 
is  one,  and  not  two. 

It  doesn’t  happen  that  the  birds  are  adjusted 
to  the  sky.  It  doesn’t  happen  that  the  eye  is 
adjusted  to  light.  It  does  not  happen  that  the 
fingers  are  adjusted  to  touch  and  lift.  It  does 
not  happen  that  the  bones  are  builded  on  the 
most  economical  lines  of  effort  and  of  weight  to 
make  for  the  largest  and  most  efficient  service. 
It  does  not  happen  that  we  have  four  fingers  to 
one  thumb  instead  of  four  thumbs  to  one  finger. 
It  does  not  happen  that  the  thumb  is  an  associate 


166 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


with  the  fingers,  so  that  one  thumb  does  as  much 
business  as  four  fingers.  It  does  not  happen  that 
a  man’s  feet  are  adjusted  to  a  man’s  stature;  it 
does  not  happen  that  a  man’s  eyes  are  adjusted 
to  a  man’s  looks;  it  does  not  happen  that  a  man’s 
nose  is  proportionate  to  the  rest  of  his  facial 
anatomy.  It  does  not  happen.  If  these  things, 
significant  as  they  are  in  themselves,  had  been 
done  by  various  authors,  we  might  have  had  a 
heterogeneous  manhood,  we  might  have  had 
something  which  would  have  gone  into  museums 
and  excited  the  laughter  of  passersby.  But  God 
is  the  one  author,  and  the  one  originator,  and  the 
one  dreamer  of  the  world  and  of  man  that  inhabits 
it.  It  comes  to  pass  that  all  that  is  fits  in  with  the 
rest  that  is.  It  happens  that  the  air  is  adjusted 
to  the  ear;  it  happens  that  music  sounds  not 
like  the  crash  of  tremendous  thunderbolts,  which 
break  to  music;  it  happens  that  the  nerves  have 
accord  and  have  discord;  it  happens  that  the 
bones  and  the  fingers  and  the  nerves  are  a  com¬ 
plicated  system,  to  be  sure,  but  one  system 
equally  sure.  It  happens  that  the  thinking  power 
of  intelligence  varies,  and  the  powers  of  humanity 
vary.  It  happens,  but  not  as  a  happening;  it 
happens  as  the  rafters  have  been  flung  across  the 
open  spaces  of  the  house  by  some  authority  who 
dreamed  them  all  at  first.  I  beg  you  to  consider 
there  is  unity  of  purpose  in  the  world  and  him 
who  inhabits  it,  and  the  reason  that  there  is  is 
because  one  Body  made  them  all. 


THE  UNIVERSAL  BUILDER 


167 


If  there  had  been  a  thousand  builders  with  a 
thousand  plans,  we  had  had  heterogeneity;  we 
had  had  promiscuousness;  we  had  had  a  ribald 
world;  we  had  had  a  world  where  bodies  were 
maladjusted  and  physicality  was  maladjusted, 
and  where  a  ponderous  intelligence  had  broken 
down  an  imponderous  physicality,  or  where  a  tre¬ 
mendous  physicality  veered  because  it  had  no 
relative  intelligence  in  it.  And  the  reason  why 
the  world  is  likable  and  lovable  and  artistic  to 
be  worked  in  and  loved  in  and  played  in  is  be¬ 
cause  the  playhouse  was  made  by  the  same 
Architect  that  devised  the  player,  and  the  reason 
why  the  world  can  be  worked  in  is  because  the 
workshop  is  contrived  by  the  same  Architect  who 
contrived  the  worker.  And  the  reason  why  the 
hammer  of  the  human  fist  can  drive  with  all  but 
omnific  might  the  rivets  through  the  world’s 
armadas  is  because  He  who  made  the  bulk  of 
iron  to  be  framed  by  human  ingenuity  and 
mechanical  forces  made  the  human  hand  with 
human  might  and  put  into  it  the  sinews  of  sinewy, 
strength.  There  is  no  argument  for  the  existence 
of  the  earth  except  it  be  in  the  same  breath  the 
argument  for  one  Creator.  I  do  not  argue  with 
what  you  call  the  correlation  of  force,  but  say  it 
is  one.  We  are  not  come  from  diversified  gods — 
if  there  were  gods — but  from  one  God.  We  are 
not  the  promiscuous  playthings  of  diversified 
divinities.  We  are  not  the  playthings  of  the 
twelve  gods  who  lorded  it  over  Olympus.  We 


168 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


are  one  in  plan,  in  heart,  in  purpose,  in  the  vast 
forces  that  possess  intellectuality,  in  the  vast 
forces  that  possess  physicality  and  the  dynamic 
forces  working  in  the  realm  of  dreams.  It  has 
been  contrived  by  one  Body  somewhere  who 
meant  that  this  world  should  be  an  affable  house 
to  the  man  who  should  be  put  into  it. 

We  were  put  in  the  house  by  Him  who  made 
the  house,  and  the  Maker  of  all  things  is  the  one 
God.  We  have  the  sign  of  one  intent.  We  are 
not  simply  fragmentary  powers  flung  down 
around  the  world  as  if  some  angry  multitude  of 
deities  had  gone  along  the  sky  and  flung  down 
from  their  plethora  of  intelligence  and  position 
here  and  there  a  rudimentary  phenomenon.  We 
are  not  that,  but  somehow  are  as  if  the  logic  of 
our  life  had  been  begotten  by  the  brain  of  one 
Contriver;  and  He  who  made  our  hands  made 
our  intelligence.  He  who  framed  the  whereby  to 
get  the  news  of  the  outside  world  framed  the 
intelligence  to  tell  us  how  forces  go  on  to  other 
forces.  He  who  made  the  muscles  that  run  to 
the  fingers  and  cover  the  bones  and  come  to  the 
shoulders  framed  the  nervous  system  of  the  brain 
and  of  the  spine  so  that  it  knows  adequately 
what  to  do,  not  as  if  it  were  maundering  and 
saying,  “What  is  that?’’  We  should  be  like 
frameless  defectives  and  intelligences  who  could 
see  a  pathway  and  would  not  pull  the  laboring 
foot  along  the  journey.  We  are  adequate,  we  are 
apt;  we  seem  somehow  as  if  the  same  breath  that 


THE  UNIVERSAL  BUILDER 


169 


blew  the  sky  blew  us;  we  seem  somehow  as  if 
He  that  put  the  rafters  of  the  vaulted  sky  on  high 
so  we  cannot  touch  them  put  the  rafters  on  this 
imperial  intelligence  of  ours.  He  has  the  mark 
of  having  created  the  world. 

And  somebody  says,  and  wisely,  I  think — I 
find  no  fault  with  it — “I  cannot  grasp  this  Body 
you  call  God.  I  cannot  understand  a  personality 
you  call  God.”  My  friend,  I  did  not  dream  you 
could.  I  think  it  not  strange  that  man  should 
be  baffled  with  that  notion.  People  who  are  not 
baffled  with  the  thought  of  God  are  not  big.  Big 
people,  when  they  look  at  the  thought  of  God, 
are  hammered  in  the  face  by  it.  I  have  some¬ 
times  been  where  the  wicked  seas  hammered  me 
prostrate  on  the  sands.  I  could  not  stand  against 
the  billows.  I  envy  nobody’s  intelligence  who, 
when  he  looks  upon  the  thought  of  a  Universal 
Architect  and  a  Universal  Artisan  and  an  Omnipo¬ 
tent  Builder,  is  not  baffled  by  it  and  who  does 
not  say,  “X  cannot  grasp  that  thought.”  Oh, 
friend,  your  trouble,  if  you  will  let  me  say  so,  is 
not  with  God,  but  with  the  house.  If  you  could 
get  away  from  the  sense  of  God,  you  would  not 
get  away  from  the  sense  of  bafflement.  Our  trouble 
is  not  primarily  with  the  thought  of  God,  but  our 
trouble  primarily  is  with  the  thought  of  us.  We 
are  here.  This  world  is  here.  This  world  baffles 
us.  We  cannot  argue  with  the  stars.  We  cannot 
comprehend  the  flowers.  We  cannot  pluck  a  petal 


170 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


from  a  lily  and  reinsert  it.  Our  trouble  is  not, 
therefore,  if  you  will  observe,  initially  with  the 
sense  of  God,  but  our  trouble  is  initially  with 
the  sense  of  the  world.  It  baffles  us.  It  makes  us 
stumble.  It  harries  us  like  a  thousand  hungry 
wolves.  It  barks  in  our  ears  and  laughs  us  down 
like  a  million  demons  saying,  “How  came  you 
and  whence  came  this  house?” 

I  design  to  suggest  to  thoughtful  women  and  men 
that  their  chief  difficulty  is  not  God,  but  their  chief 
difficulty  is  this  world,  and  this  gravitation  and  this 
astronomy  and  this  botany  and  this  chemistry.  You 
have  no  more  trouble  in  understanding  the  Maker 
of  chemistry  than  you  do  the  chemistry  that  is 
made.  You  have  no  more  trouble  in  understand¬ 
ing  the  Maker  of  the  ocean  than  you  do  the  ocean 
that  is  made.  You  do  not  know  anything  much 
concerning  anything.  You  have  touched  the  rind 
of  the  world;  you  have  tried  to  pare  the  apple 
we  call  physical  things,  but  have  only  cut  your 
fingers  and  have  cut  a  little  thread  from  the  rind. 
You  do  not  any  more  understand  man  than  God. 
You  do  not  any  more  understand  your  baby  than 
the  Omnipotent  Creator  of  the  Universe.  You 
no  more  understand  your  wife’s  way  of  thinking 
than  God’s  method  of  thinking.  You  are  baffled, 
that  is  all.  If  the  matter  of  believing  in  a  God 
were  a  matter  of  putting  up  some  complex  claim 
whose  complexity  might  snarl  the  soul  and  drag 
it  down  like  a  tower,  I  had  granted  that  the 
atheist  had  the  rock  on  which  to  stand.  But  that 


THE  UNIVERSAL  BUILDER 


171 


is  not  the  trouble,  brothers.  The  trouble  is  not 
with  God,  but  the  trouble  is  we  are  begirt  with 
inexplicables,  and  are  in  the  midst  of  mystery, 
and  are  hounded  down  of  things  we  do  not  know. 
And  until  you  know  more  about  life  you  have  no 
argument  to  set  up  concerning  the  complexities 
of  God.  The  rocks  are  solid.  The  seas  are  yeasty. 
The  blue  sky  is  above  us.  The  air  is  atmospheric. 
The  winds  blow  in  the  atmosphere.  There  is  the 
realm  of  life;  there  is  the  realm  of  hate;  there  is 
the  realm  of  fear;  there  is  the  realm  of  death; 
there  is  the  realm  of  life.  You  no  more  know 
about  the  death  of  your  baby  than  about  its 
birth.  You  know  no  more  about  the  birth  of 
your  baby  than  you  do  of  its  death.  You  do  not 
know  how  the  human  soul  occupies  the  human 
body.  You  do  not  know  how  the  soul  gets  tired 
of  the  human  body  and  moves  out.  You  do  not 
know  whence  the  soul  came  any  more  than  you 
know  where  the  soul  departs.  You  are  perplexed, 
and  you  are  like  people  who  have  their  hands 
upon  their  eyes  and  are  blinded,  and  say,  “I 
cannot  see.”  I  can  understand  how  people  are 
bemurked  and  lost  with  the  perplexing  concep¬ 
tion  of  God,  but  I  humbly  suggest,  if  they  re¬ 
consider  and  see  how  they  are  bemurked,  not 
because  there  is  a  God,  but  because  there  is  a 
world,  and  because  there  are  folks,  they  will  find 
an  easy  pathway  to  the  conception  of  a  God. 
Our  trouble  is  that  things  are  here,  it  is  not  who 
made  them.  If  you  could  destroy  the  conception 


172 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


of  God  from  the  thinking  world,  all  difficulties 
would  still  baffle  us.  Whence  did  we  come,  and 
why  are  we  here?  Your  trouble  is  in  no  wise 
moderated  by  putting  God  out.  The  world  is  too 
big  for  us.  We  are  baffled  at  every  turn.  We  are 
like  a  man  baffled  by  hostile  forces,  and  he  runs 
every  whither.  With  a  jab  of  spear,  he  says,  “I 
will  make  my  exit  here.”  And  lo,  the  Macedonian 
phalanx  rushes  out  against  his  breast  and  the  wild 
call  of  the  mutilated  soldier  says,  “Not  here.” 
And  then  he  runs  the  other  way,  and  lo,  there 
is  a  cordon  of  spears  which  says,  “Not  here.” 
And  every  way  you  go  you  are  not  manumitted 
from  perplexity  but  engulfed  by  it. 

I  have  known  not  a  few  people,  and  people  of 
signal  intelligence,  who  seemed  to  think  we  have 
only  to  remove  things  far  enough  off  to  render 
complex  things  simple;  that,  if  you  took  a 
million  million  years  to  make  a  world,  it  would 
make  the  job  easy.  No,  it  wouldn’t.  Evolution 
has  not  eased  up  the  problem  of  making  the 
world;  it  has  made  it  definitely  harder,  because 
it  is  so  utterly  perplexing  to  think  of  any  master 
workman  staying  awake  so  long  day  and  night 
doing  the  job  of  keeping  the  interminable  forces 
interminably  working.  Anybody  here  who  thinks 
evolution  has  eased  up  the  problem  of  ontology 
is  deluding  himself.  It  doesn’t  help  any.  You 
cannot  explain  things  because  you  elongate  the 
time  of  doing.  You  simply  elongate  the  per- 


THE  UNIVERSAL  BUILDER 


173 


plexity.  You  cannot  explain  anything  by  long 
times.  You  cannot  explain  anything  by  saying, 
“Why,  it  was  long  centuries  contriving.”  Why, 
friend,  is  that  easing  matters?  It  is  not.  That  is 
simply  whining  at  the  hard  knot.  Some  people 
seem  to  think  they  can  cut  the  knot  by  saying, 
“It  was  done  in  the  past.”  You  ask  man  how  he 
came  here.  He  says,  “Evolution” — the  chemical 
changes  in  the  anterior  time  of  the  world  might 
have  accounted  for  him.  Rut  where  did  you 
get  another  chemistry  than  the  one  you  now 
have?  Have  you  two  chemistries  or  one?  Have 
the  primary  belongings  of  the  chemical  labor¬ 
atories  decreased  or  increased?  Isn’t  the  sun 
made  out  of  the  same  stuff  as  the  world  is? 
Haven’t  they  iron  in  the  sun  the  same  as  in 
the  ground?  Haven’t  they  gold  in  the  sun 
the  same  as  in  the  ground?  Why,  we  are  just  a 
piece  of  the  rind  peeled  off  the  sun  and  thrown 
down  in  the  sky  a  little.  That  is  all  we  are.  We 
are  just  a  kind  of  back-door  lot  to  the  sun,  and 
the  same  old  chemistry  obtains. 

Suppose  you  say,  “What  made  the  world?” 
instead  of  “Who  made  it?”  To  which,  I  suggest, 
the  answer  is,  we  are  not  babes  in  the  woods! 
We  are  not  little  codgers;  we  are  grown  folks! 
We  are  not  talking  silly  talk — it  is  not  what 
made  things,  but  who,  we  know  that.  The  child 
knows  when  he  gets  a  top  that  somebody 
made  it,  and  he  says:  “Who  made  it?  Papa,  did 
you  make  it?”  When  you  see  an  invention  you 


174 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


say,  “Who  made  it?”  Here  is  the  matter  of  the 
phonograph.  What  is  that?  Oh,  it  is  the  bottling 
up  the  human  voice  as  if  it  were  olives,  and 
when  you  want  a  human  voice  you  unbottle  it 
and  take  out  a  human  voice.  You  say,  “What 
made  it?”  Oh,  you  silly,  say,  “Who  made  it?” 
Some  brain  made  it.  Exactly.  But  I  will  ask 
you  something:  What  made  the  human  voice? 
And  I  ask  also  if  bottling  up  the  human  voice 
in  a  phonograph  is  not  a  mystery  and  requires 
not  a  “what”  to  contrive  it,  but  a  “who”  to 
manufacture  it.  There  must  be  a  great  inventor 
that  knew  something  about  the  laws  along  whose 
trackways  the  universe  runs,  but  you  are  not 
going  to  get  any  whither  by  asking  “What  made 
things?”  but  “Who?”  And  this  man,  whoever 
he  was,  spoke  with  vast  sanity,  and  I  think  vast 
heartening,  when  he  said:  “Every  house  was 
builded  by  some  man;  but  he  that  built  all  things 
is  God.”  Here  is  the  human  eye,  and  it  is  pretty 
generally  allowed  that  it  is  a  very  wonderful 
machine.  Once  in  a  while  a  man  arises  and 
says  it  is  defective.  So  is  the  man.  It  is  de¬ 
fective,  but  it  does  the  business  it  is  put  here 
to  do.  But  there  are  some  people  right  now  who 
have  eyes  rather  telescopic  and  cannot  see  any¬ 
thing  close.  They  don’t  see  anything  they  don’t 
want  to  see.  They  can’t  see  the  preacher  on 
the  street. 

They  cannot  see  human  need  when  it  is  right 
close.  They  cannot  see  tears  when  they  are 


THE  UNIVERSAL  BUILDER 


175 


streaming  down  the  cheek.  We  haven’t  tele¬ 
scopic  eyes.  We  don’t  want  telescopic  eyes. 
We  want  human  eyes.  They  say  that  the  human 
eye  is  not  microscopic.  Neither  are  we.  Some 
of  us  are  nearly  so.  You  have  to  look  pretty 
hard  to  see  us;  but  in  the  main  we  are  terrestrial 
folks.  We  don’t  need  microscopic  eyes.  We 
want  terrestrial  eyes. 

I  think  I  may  insist  that  the  most  stupendous 
approach  of  human  intelligence  toward  omnis- 
ciency  is  when  it  climbs  from  the  carpenter’s 
tool  and  the  carpenter’s  ladder  and  the  car¬ 
penter’s  apparatus,  wherewith  he  does  things,  to 
the  Carpenter.  He  who  made  all  things  is  God. 
But  how  God  made  all  things — that  is  the  secret. 
You  say  electricity  is  here.  I  know  it.  But 
who  put  it  here?  And  we  say  electricity  is  here. 
You  know  that.  But  what  is  electricity?  And 
I  would  ask  you  to  define  it.  You  say  that  it 
can  make  heat,  or  it  can  make  power,  or  it  can 
make  chemic  activity.  But,  friends,  I  didn’t 
ask  you  a  kindergarten  question.  I  know  about 
that.  I  didn’t  ask  you  what  this  electricity  man 
did  when  his  sleeves  were  rolled  up.  I  said, 
“What  is  it?”  And  you  said,  “It  is  electricity.” 
But  you  know  no  more.  Oh,  well,  we  haven’t 
gotten  very  far.  What  the  human  intelligence 
wants,  and  I  will  say  what  the  human  intelligence 
in  its  long  sweep  of  march  will  demand,  is  that 
it  get  past  the  dynamo  and  the  electric  current 


176 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


to  the  Maker  of  the  dynamo  and  the  electric 
current.  I  will  say  that  the  human  intelligence 
will  never  stop  with  the  human  soul,  but  wants 
to  know  the  Maker  of  the  human  soul.  I  will 
say  that  the  human  intelligence  will  never  stop 
with  the  mechanism,  but  wants  to  know  the  secret 
of  the  machine.  It  will  never  be  handicapped 
by  what  is;  it  will  forever  and  forever  urge  its 
feverish  and  majestical  way  to  the  who. 

And  the  way  this  universe  came,  says  this 
stalwart  sayer  of  things,  is  that  “he  who  made 
all  things  is  God.”  And  that  is  how  it  comes 
to  pass,  brothers  and  sisters,  with  the  world  that 
it  has  .system  and  unity,  and  has  an  intellec¬ 
tual  purpose  and  things  are  a  part  of  an  intel¬ 
lectual  scheme,  and  the  world  has  a  moral  purpose 
and  things  are  a  part  of  a  moral  scheme.  The 
world  itself,  the  running  on  of  the  beams  of  light, 
the  shading  of  the  meadows  with  the  passing 
clouds,  the  everlastingness  of  the  eternities,  the 
spaces  that  are  infinite,  the  solid  ground  on 
which  we  walk,  the  cohesions  and  adhesions  of 
things — all  these  things  are  morally  contrived. 
They  are  mortised  together  like  a  house  or  car; 
they  are  not  thrown  together  with  fragmentary 
ethical  purpose  any  more  than  with  fragmentary 
intellectual  purpose.  But  if  you  understand  that 
He  who  builded  all  things  is  God,  then  you 
understand  how  the  universe  is  moral;  then  you 
understand  how  history  in  the  long  race  is  moral; 
then  you  understand  how  man  in  the  long  run 


THE  UNIVERSAL  BUILDER 


177 


is  moral;  then  you  understand  how  man  cannot 
help  some  time  or  other  praying;  then  you  under¬ 
stand  how  man  cannot  help  some  time  or  other 
biting  his  lips  when  conscience  jabs  him;  then 
you  understand  how  man,  if  he  seem  for  a 
moment  like  a  passing  bubble  on  the  tossing 
stormy  wave,  really  feels  he  must  not  die,  that 
he  is  not  stumbling  to  his  death  but  down  into 
his  hell,  or  into  his  heaven.  Then  you  understand 
if  God  made  all  things,  how  it  is  all  things  in 
every  way  are  “bound  by  chains  of  gold  about  the 
feet  of  God.,, 

Sometimes  I  have  stood  on  narrow  straits 
through  which  the  wild  seas  angered,  have  stood 
upon  the  borders  of  the  rock,  and  have  seen  the 
waters  crash,  and  on  the  northern  coast  of  Isle 
of  Man  witnessed  the  boiling  seas  leap  as  if  a 
thousand  maniacs  were  mixed  with  their  blood, 
rush  on,  forever  on.  What  ails  the  rushing 
universe?  And  the  answer  is,  it  is  made  with 
the  passionate  power  of  ethicality  and  is  rushing 
on  ultimately  to  fulfill  the  plan  that  was  put 
into  it  by  the  Almighty  Builder.  House  of  the 
old  world,  house  of  the  blue  sky,  house  of  the 
checkered  grouping  of  the  multitudinous  flowers; 
house  of  the  ripening  apples  and  the  ripening 
pears,  old  world,  with  your  fractured  floor  and 
your  volcanic  crust  and  your  snowy  roof  and  your 
evergreen  forests  and  your  singing  water  brooks 
and  your  singing  children;  old  earth  and  old 
civilization,  with  your  feet  planted  back  upon 


178 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


the  ledges  of  early  history  and  with  only  your 
bosom  showing  above  the  crest  of  the  mountains 
with  your  chin  appearing  through  the  mist,  are 
voices  calling  on  the  breezes,  “God  hath  made 
us.”  O  soul,  with  thy  wicked  will  and  with 
thy  freedom  of  holy  purpose;  O  soul,  with  thy 
faith  and  heart  unafraid  to  die,  God  hath  made 
thee.  O  world;  O  history;  O  centuries;  O  civiliza¬ 
tion;  0  souls;  O  theology;  O  love;  O  hope;  O 
faith;  0  religion,  God — one  God  hath  made  ye 
all,  and  so  together  ye  shall  work  out  a  far  more 
exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory. 

And  I  hear  the  hammering  of  the  hammer  of 
God,  and  I  hear  the  breath  of  the  Almighty 
Architect  coming  hot  as  he  makes  his  wondrous 
house,  and  I  hear  him  breathing  upon  human 
souls  and  saying  “I  make  you  like  me”;  and  I 
hear  him  saying  to  his  angel  wrorkmen:  “Frame 
the  house  of  heaven,  for  I  will  people  it  by  and 
by  with  people  from  my  world,  who  are  made 
like  unto  me.  Their  earthly  house  is  but  a  tent 
and  the  wind  blows  through  and  snarls  the  tent 
walls  into  ravelings.  But  I  will  build  them  a 
house  eternal  in  the  heavens.” 

And  what  was  it,  what  was  it  that  the  man 
said  when  he  heard  the  workman  at  the  scaffolds 
of  the  world’s  house,  what  was  it  that  he  said? 
He  said:  “Every  house  is  builded  by  some  man. 
Every  house  is  builded  by  some  man,  but  he 
that  built  all  things  is  God.” 


PRAYER 


Forsaken!  O  my  Lord,  we  are  left  all  alone.  My  heart 
is  desolate.  My  moan  is  sole  minstrel.  Death  hath  clutched 
at  the  hand  I  loved  the  most  and,  raging,  hath  taken  my 
beloved  away.  The  house  is  empty;  the  hills  are  sad;  the 
prairies  at  flower  of  spring  are  to  my  desolation  but  a  sandy 
waste;  the  city  of  my  heart  is  dispeopled — not  a  child  play¬ 
ing  and  singing  in  its  forsaken  schools  nor  any  woman  sing¬ 
ing  at  the  window  at  her  work,  nor  any  man  digs  in  the 
street — Desolate . 

“My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate.”  I  know  what  that 
saying  meaneth  now.  O  my  beloved,  speak,  answer  from 
thy  far  rest  place  among  the  beatified.  No  word  nor  any 
touch. 

Forsaken ! 

And  then,  O  Lord  of  every  mercy,  I  read  with  fiery  eye¬ 
balls  and  with  blistered  heart,  “When  my  father  and  mother 
forsake  me,  then  the  Lord  will  take  me  up.”  Even  so,  even 
so.  Thus  do  I  find  it.  I  am  alone  and  very  desolate  but  not 
forsaken,  thanks  to  the  God  of  all  compassion.  The  Lord 
hath  taken  me  up  and  I  sob  on  his  heart  and  fall  asleep,  as 
one  whom  his  mother  comforteth.  Alleluiah.  Amen. 


180 


XII 


THE  GARDENER 

“She,  supposing  him  to  be  the  gardener.” — John  20.  15. 

On  Easter  morning  Mary  Magdalene  was  very 
early  at  the  grave  of  Christ.  Her  heart  ached  so 
that  her  woman’s  timorousness  was  overborne, 
and  through  the  darkness  before  the  dawn  she 
found  her  way  for  her  festival  of  sorrow  at  the 
grave  of  Christ.  She  came  to  anoint  the  tomb 
with  her  tears.  She  came  to  sob  the  solemn 
melody  of  a  woman’s  heartbreak  over  the  Son 
of  God.  And  finding  the  grave  empty,  and  find¬ 
ing  the  angels  at  the  tomb  when  she  had  thought 
to  find  Christ  in  the  tomb,  she  could  think  only 
one  thing,  and  that  was  that  He  for  whom  she 
had  come  had  departed.  And  she  turned  away 
dismayed.  No  presence  of  angels  can  make  up 
for  the  absence  of  the  Christ.  That  was  what 
Mary  knew.  That  was  a  vision  worthy  of  a 
woman’s  heart,  that  no  multitude  of  cherubim  or 
seraphim  can  be  an  equivalent  for  the  Christ. 
And  she  turned  her  away,  and  as  she  turned 
about,  head  hung  down,  eyes  swollen  with  weep¬ 
ing,  heart  breaking  with  sorrow,  Christ  met  her, 
and  she,  looking  up  through  the  very  drench  of 

tears,  thought  he  was  the  gardener. 

181 


182 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Now,  that  is  the  poetry  of  the  situation.  And 
I  think  it  engrossing  poetry.  Such  is  the  fact  of 
the  situation;  but  it  is  none  the  less  engrossing 
poetry  because  it  is  fact,  but  rather  more.  Fact 
is  the  most  poetic  of  all  things  below  these  bended 
skies  of  blue.  And  we  might  look  at  this  incident 
this  way,  treat  it  cavalierly,  speak  harshly  to 
Mary  or  of  her,  say  that  was  what  we  might 
expect,  that  this  was  a  woman’s  way,  to  speak 
before  she  thought,  to  consider  afterward,  if  at 
all.  She  took  Him  to  be  the  gardener,  who  was 
in  truth  the  Lord  God  Almighty.  And  you  might 
apologize  for  her.  You  might  say  her  heart  was 
broken;  and  you  might  say  her  eyeballs  were 
seared  with  the  burning  touch  of  the  finger  of 
sorrow.  And  we  might  exculpate  her  from  her 
guilt,  and  we  might  excuse  her  for  her  mistake. 
Or  it  might  be  that,  womanwise,  Mary  didn’t 
think  her  way  through  things,  but  felt  her  way 
through  things  with  that  splendid  spring  of  pas¬ 
sionate  womanhood  called  intuition  that  gets  the 
truth  when  men  see  it  not.  Maybe  Mary  in  her 
heartbreak  and  in  her  mistake  has  come  closer  to 
the  poetic  heart  of  truth  than  you  and  I  could 
do  with  all  our  coldness  and  with  all  our  certain 
logic.  She  thought  He  was  the  gardener! 

And  when  we  give  the  matter  heed,  He  was  the 
Shepherd.  Why  might  not  He  who  was  the  Shep¬ 
herd  be  a  gardener?  Why  might  not  He  that 
took  the  unweaned  lambs  in  his  arms  and  gently 
cared  for  such  as  were  with  young,  why  might 


THE  GARDENER 


183 


not  He  who  went  across  the  hills  of  Bethlehem  at 
early  dew  of  morning  wooing  the  sheep  with  his 
voice,  why  might  not  He  of  the  garments  of  the 
shepherd  drenched  with  the  odors  of  the  night,  as 
if  touched  with  starlight  and  the  morning’s  dawn, 
why  might  not  He  that  is  the  Shepherd  be  the 
Gardener?  And  in  any  case,  certain  we  must  be 
when  we  give  matters  deliberate  consideration 
that  Mary’s  woman  mistake  lifted  itself  into  the 
very  sky  of  poetic  beauty  and  showed  the  poet’s 
vision  that  comes  through  a  woman’s  broken 
heart.  Beloved,  it  is  so  that  sorrow  gives  sight. 
It  is  so  that  some  things  cannot  be  seen  through 
happy  eyes  all  dry  from  tears;  it  is  so  that  the 
broken  heart  gets  eyes  qualified;  it  is  so  that  a 
broken  heart  is  a  good  oculist;  it  is  so  that  the 
brokenhearted  sometimes  are  competent  to  see 
what  the  wholehearted  are  incompetent  to  be- 
holdi.  And  the  truth,  the  beautiful,  witching  truth, 
is  that  Jesus  is  the  Gardener,  that  this  Shepherd 
is  the  Gardener  likewise. 

Now,  the  gardener  has  his  workingman’s  coat 
on  him.  She  mistook  Jesus  for  a  workingman. 
She  mistook  his  garments  for  the  garments  of  toil. 
No,  no.  Haste  slowly,  beloved.  Halt  what  time 
you  speak.  She  did  not  mistake.  Christ  had 
work  clothes  on.  He  never  had  a  princely  coat. 
He  never  wore  Sunday  clothes.  He  had  no  change 
of  coats.  One  he  lived  in,  one  he  wrought  in,  one 
he  died  in;  one  garment  they  gambled  for  below 
the  merciless  cross.  Mary  did  not  make  a  mistake. 


184 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Here  was  the  Gardener  with  his  hands  covered 
with  the  dirt  of  earth.  Here  was  the  Gardener 
with  his  face  all  sweaty,  howbeit  with  blood. 
Here  is  the  Gardener.  O  Mary,  Mary!  And  she 
says,  “I  mistook  him,  and  it  was  my  tears  misled 
me.”  Ah,  Mary,  Mary,  it  was  your  tears  and 
your  woman’s  heartache  and  your  woman’s  vision 
that  really  led  you.  We  didn’t  know  it,  and  we 
couldn’t  have  said  it,  and  I  firmly  infer  we  men 
could  never  have  read  that  riddle  out.  We  others 
would  never  have  guessed  this  was  the  gardener. 
O  Mary,  Mary,  your  mistake  climbed  to  the  top¬ 
less  top  of  the  topless  hill  of  truth.  And  I  bless 
God  it  is  said  “she  supposing  he  was  the  gardener.” 

Now,  a  gardener  believes  in  certain  things. 
First,  he  believes  in  the  ground;  second,  he  be¬ 
lieves  in  the  seeds;  third,  he  believes  in  the  sky; 
and,  fourth,  he  believes  in  the  tending. 

The  gardener  doesn’t  say  the  dirt  is  prosaic. 
He  doesn’t  care  to  anger  at  the  dust.  He  doesn’t 
say  mud  is  a  blemish.  He  loves  the  dirt  because 
the  dirt  is  that  without  which  flowers  could  never 
grow.  Some  people  are  elate  over  marble.  The 
quarries  of  Carrara,  or  Pentelicus,  with  their 
whiteness  of  wonder  and  their  wonder  of  white¬ 
ness,  seem  to  them  to  be  ecstatic.  Ah,  but  no 
lilies  root  in  Carrara  marble,  and  no  roses  grow 
out  of  Pentelic  marbles,  and  no  lovely  flowers 
root  themselves  in  the  lonely  crevice  of  lovely 
Carrara.  It  is  the  common  dirt,  this  blessed  every¬ 
day  ground,  this  where  the  vegetable  garden 


THE  GARDENER 


185 


grows  its  herbs,  this  where  the  common  weeds 
sprout  and  lift,  this  where  everybody  walks,  this 
where  everybody  knows  that  all  must  grow.  The 
gardener  looks  down;  he  espouses  the  dirt;  he 
knows  how  worthy  the  earth  is.  He  says  in  better 
fashion  than  John  Burroughs  knows  that  dirt 
looks  good  enough,  in  the  springtime,  to  eat.  He 
says  that  this  dirt  is  relative  to  the  flower  and 
the  harvest  and  the  fruit  and  the  vineyard  and 
the  leafing  of  the  tree  and  the  shady  forest.  The 
gardener  has  no  arguments  against  the  dirt;  he 
has  no  antagonism  to  the  common  ground.  Its 
very  commonness  is  its  comfort  and  its  very 
prevalence  is  its  vastness  of  largess. 

It  is  so  clamorous  that  everybody  must  have 
a  flower.  Some  people  never  feel  good  about  any¬ 
thing  unless  it  is  one  out  of  a  multitude,  when 
nobody  else  has  it.  If  they  could  have  a  diamond, 
that  is  wonderful,  but  everybody  can  have  a 
fistful  of  violets  in  the  spring;  but  they  are  just 
violets.  Ah,  me,  but  the  Gardener,  he  puts  his 
wistful  wonder  of  his  smile  upon  the  ground  be¬ 
cause  out  of  it  grows  community  of  interest  for 
the  world.  Cry?  Babies  cry  for  bread.  Aye, 
here  is  the  ground  and  here  is  the  Gardener.  You 
shall  have  a  table  spread.  The  hungry  men 
toil  with  their  sweaty  labor  till  they  are  sweat- 
drenched,  and  then  they  call  out  for  bread,  and 
the  Gardener  says:  “The  ground  is  working  for 
you.”  And  the  toiler  ceases  his  toil,  the  table  is 
spread,  the  bread  is  of  the  ground.  Why,  the 


186 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


ground  is  the  benefactor  of  us  all.  We  shall  be 
better  off  after  a  while,  truly.  We  must  walk  on 
it  here,  truly.  We  must  ask  it  for  our  daily  bread, 
truly.  There  is  no  daily  bread  grown  from 
diamonds  or  from  quarries  of  marble,  nor  from 
mines  of  gold.  No  bread  groweth  there.  And  you 
might  own  a  solid  globe  of  gold  and  die  of  utter 
hunger;  but  if  you  had  an  acre  or  two  of  dirt, 
thank  God,  come  little  laddies  and  lassies,  come 
little  children  of  my  love,  we  may  go  and  pluck 
the  flowers  that  bloom,  and  we  may  go  and  pluck 
the  things  for  breakfast.  And  if  anybody  here 
ever  was  out  of  doors  in  the  country,  where  he 
had  a  lot  of  backyard,  and  a  bit  of  garden  ground, 
where  he  could  grow  a  little  radish,  and  even 
have,  for  perfume,  an  onion,  and  then  a  potato 
here  and  there,  and  then  a  stalk  of  corn,  and 
when  he  came  out  in  the  early  morning,  when  the 
dew  was  prevalent,  and  every  leaf  had  its  drop 
of  jewelry,  more  radiant  than  ever  shined  on 
lady’s  throat — went  out  and  said  to  the  wife,  “I 
will  go  out  and  get  the  vegetables  for  breakfast; 
I  will  go  out  and  get  the  vegetables  for  the  day,” 
out  for  the  picking  of  the  peas,  and  to  the  gather¬ 
ing  of  a  few  radishes,  and  out  to  the  getting  of  a 
little  lettuce — oh,  isn’t  it  cheap  business  to  go 
and  buy  garden  stuff  off  of  a  grocer’s  counter 
when  you  used  to  go  and  pick  it  out  of  the 
dirt — radishes,  lettuce,  apples,  splendrous  with 
the  sunset  hue?  Oh,  I  think  betimes  if  the  gardener 
didn’t  believe  in  common  dirt  we  should  all  be 


THE  GARDENER 


187 


lost.  I  will  bless  God  while  I  live  to  tell  my  story 
of  the  Christ,  that  he  dug  in  the  common  ground, 
and  made  it  to  flower  and  fruit. 

He  did  not  have  many  geniuses  to  traffic  with; 
he  had  only  the  everyday  dirt.  It  needed  much 
fertilizing  sometimes,  was  scant  of  depth  some¬ 
times,  but  the  Gardener  was  there,  and  we  said: 
“O  Gardener,  don’t  take  trouble  with  us;  pass 
on.  We  are  not  worthy;  the  others  need  it.  You 
shall  find  rich  fruitage  out  of  some  one  else’s  life.” 
But  the  Gardener  leaned  over  the  common  dirt 
of  our  life  and  said:  “This  soil  will  grow  flowers 
of  paradise”;  and  he  said,  “This  soil  will  grow 
fruit  of  Eshcol,  and  the  grapes  the  giants  bore  on 
stooped  shoulders  shall  grow  on  this.”  O  Gar¬ 
dener,  Gardener,  can  you  farm  my  soil?  O  Gar¬ 
dener,  can  you  out  of  the  common  ground  of 
my  life  grow  lily  flowers?  And  he  said,  “It  is 
dirt,  the  dirt  out  of  whose  lavish  wealth  there 
grows  feeding  of  the  world.”  People  who  do  not 
believe  in  the  dirt  won’t  grow  democracies.  Peo¬ 
ple  who  don’t  believe  in  the  dirt  won’t  grow 
churches.  People  who  don’t  believe  in  the  dirt 
won’t  grow  poets.  Poets  all  grow  out  of  the 
ground.  There  never  was  a  poet  yet  of  any  mag¬ 
nitude  that  came  from  a  kingly  house.  They 
all  grew  out  of  common  dirt.  People  that  don’t 
believe  in  the  dirt  cannot  grow  constellations  of 
virtue;  people  that  do  not  believe  in  the  dirt 
cannot  populate  heaven;  people  that  do  not 
believe  in  the  dirt  cannot  colonize  eternity.  The 


188 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Gardener!  His  sleeves  are  rolled  clean  to  the 
shoulder,  and  his  hands  are  brown  with  common 
dirt.  He  has  been  digging  in  the  soil,  the  soil 
of  thy  heart,  and  mine,  thank  God. 

“She  thought  he  wras  the  gardener.”  And 
then  the  Gardener  believes  in  the  seeds.  A  seed 
is  God’s  package  of  life  done  up  in  a  little  bundle. 
I  will  say  that  the  most  appalling  miracle  on  this 
earth  is  a  common  flower  seed  or  a  grain  of  corn, 
or  a  wheat  grain.  What  is  in  that?  It  is  a 
grain  of  wheat.  What  is  in  that?  Bread  for  the 
world.  A  grain  of  corn — what  is  in  that?  Fodder 
and  grain  for  the  herds  of  the  world.  True.  And 
every  seed  is  life,  that  is  it.  The  gardener  be¬ 
lieves  in  the  dirt,  but  he  believes  in  the  seeds, 
and  he  knows  that  the  dirt  cannot  of  itself  grow 
life,  and  he  knows  that  in  order  to  have  flowers 
and  forests,  and  to  have  garden  stuff,  or  cereals, 
food  to  flood  the  world  with  wealth  and  wonder, 
you  must  have  a  seed.  And  the  gardener  is  no 
agnostic.  He  does  believe  in  life  outside  of 
the  ordinary.  He  believes  in  the  seed.  He 
does  not  stand  and  argue  with  it;  he  does  not 
haggle  over  trivial  particulars.  He  does  not  say: 
“I  do  not  see  how  the  seed  can  sprout.  It  is  a 
dull,  poor  thing  to  look  at,  looks  only  like  a 
pebble — I  don’t  discriminate  it  from  a  pebble. 
I  don’t  see  how  it  can  grow.  I  cannot  see  how 
one  seed  should  grow  sunflower,  and  another 
seed  should  grow  morning-glories,  and  how  an¬ 
other  seed  should  grow  the  glory  of  the  lily.  I 


THE  GARDENER 


189 


do  not  see  that.”  But  he  believes  in  the  seed, 
and  when  he  wants  a  lily  he  does  not  plant  a 
pumpkin  seed.  He  does  not  say,  “In  the  lab¬ 
oratory  of  the  chemist,  these  things  are  iden¬ 
tical.”  That  is  so.  The  chemical  laboratory 
talks  about  all  seeds  as  being  alike;  and  it 
is  so  that  the  most  expert  chemist  cannot  tell 
what  sort  of  a  thing  will  grow  out  of  what  sort 
of  a  seed.  And  you  give  any  chemist  a  seed, 
notwithstanding  his  proficiency,  and  say,  “You 
tell  me,  what  will  this  seed  mother?”  And  he 
says,  “I  am  busy  now,  and  all  seeds  are  alike  to 
me,  and  all  amount  to  the  same  thing  under  the 
chemist  touch”;  and  he  says,  “when  I  have 
leisure” — and  he  cannot  tell.  But  this  seed  here, 
it  will  grow  a  blue  cornflower;  and  this  seed  here 
will  grow  a  poppy,  crimson  as  if  drenched  with 
the  wine  of  sunset;  and  this  seed  here  will  grow 
grain,  or  an  oak  tree,  or  an  ash  tree,  or  a  wheat 
field — but  you  cannot  tell  which  till  you  try. 
“Why,”  you  say,  “an  acorn  will  grow  an  oak!” 
Ah,  truly,  wise  friend,  you  do  know,  because  you 
saw  the  gardener  doing  it;  you  saw  what  kind 
of  a  seed  he  planted  when  he  wanted  to  grow 
the  oak  tree;  but  if  you  had  seen  an  acorn  and 
had  never  seen  its  relationship  to  an  oak  you 
could  not,  with  all  your  wisdom,  discriminate 
what  tree  would  grow  from  it.  You  can  never 
tell.  I  could  never  dream.  And  the  gardener 
is  a  man  of  faith  in  the  seed,  and  he  sows  what 
sort  of  seeds  according  as  he  wants  to  grow 


190 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


what  sort  of  things.  When  a  man  wants  to  grow 
pansies  he  doesn’t  get  tomato  seeds.  You  must 
get  pansy  seeds. 

And  you  say:  “How  can  you  discriminate 
between  the  seeds?  Are  you  a  master  in  proto- 
plasmal  life?”  “Oh,  no,”  he  says,  “I  have  just 
got  sense.  Give  me  ten  cents’  worth  of  tomato 
seed.”  And  it  is  surprising  how  far  ten  cents 
goes  when  you  buy  ten  cents’  worth  of  tomato 
seed.  A  little  sense  outclasses  all  the  vagaries 
of  philosophy.  The  gardener  believes  in  the 
seeds.  “True,”  you  say,  “but  some  seeds  won’t 
grow  things!”  Ah,  I  know  that,  but  some  will. 
You  say:  “I  know  sometimes  seeds  won’t  sprout 
at  all.”  Yes,  but  lots  of  seeds  do  sprout.  You 
know  one  spring  when  you  planted  corn,  but  the 
whole  planting  stayed  under  ground.  You  remem¬ 
ber  that  too.  What  did  you  do?  “Planted  it 
again,”  you  say,  “because  the  gophers  got  it, 
or  the  ground  was  too  wet,  and  it  didn’t  sprout.” 
You  just  said:  “That  is  no  good.”  O  Gardener, 
what  are  you  doing?  And  he  said:  “Planting  a 
seed.”  And  he  is  planting  a  seed,  and  it  is  the 
seed  of  love;  and  he  is  planting  a  seed  in  the  soil, 
and  it  is  the  seed  of  kindness;  and  he  is  planting  a 
seed  in  the  soil,  and  it  is  the  seed  of  courtesy;  and 
he  is  planting  a  seed  in  the  soil,  and  it  is  the  seed 
of  refinement;  and  he  is  planting  a  seed  in  the  soil, 
and  it  is  the  seed  of  hope;  and  he  is  planting  a  seed 
in  the  soil,  and  it  is  the  seed  of  endeavor;  and  he  is 
planting  a  seed  in  the  soil,  and  this  is  the  seed  of 


THE  GARDENER 


191 


song;  and  he  is  planting  a  seed  in  the  soil,  and  it 
is  the  seed  of  faith.  O  Gardener,  you  are  so 
tired!  “No,  not  tired,”  he  says,  “just  occupied.” 
And  you  go  and  talk  with  the  Gardener,  and  he 
will  not  stop,  and  he  will  not  stand  and  look  at 
you,  and  he  will  not  say,  “Come  on  to  the  porch 
and  let’s  sit  in  the  shade,”  but  he  will  say,  “Excuse 
me,  I  am  at  work,  planting  the  seed.”  O  heart 
of  sorrow,  there  is  a  seed  that  the  Gardener  will 
plant  in  your  heart,  and  it  will  grow  up  a  song* 
Oh,  Gardener,  do  you  toil  all  day?  “Yes,”  he 
says,  “the  nighttime  too.”  O  Gardener,  toil  you 
in  the  early  spring?  “Aye,”  he  says.  “In  the 
autumn  also.”  O  Gardener,  toil.  Forget  not 
my  heart,  it  is  so  gloomy  with  sadness.  “Aye,” 
he  said.  “I  will  plant  in  thy  heart  a  flower.” 
Thank  God! 

The  gardener  believes  in  the  soil,  and  he  believes 
in  the  seed,  and  then  the  gardener  believes  in  the 
sky.  He  knows  that  flowers  root  in  the  soil, 
but  grow  into  the  sky.  He  knows  that  flowers 
don’t  root  in  the  sky  and  grow  into  the  ground; 
he  knows  that.  God’s  gardener  never  inverts  his 
processes;  he  never  subverts  principles  of  common 
sense.  God  is  the  master  of  the  common-sense 
philosophies  of  the  world;  and  you  can  always 
tell  with  absolute  ease  of  substantiation  whether 
things  are  of  God  by  whether  they  are  sensible; 
for  if  a  thing  is  outrageous,  if  it  snarls  your  com¬ 
mon  sense,  then  you  know  that  thing  is  not  of 


192 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


God,  because  God  does  not  say:  “It  does  not 
make  any  difference  whether  you  plant  a  seed 
in  the  sky  or  the  earth;  it  is  just  as  you  say  about 
it.  If  you  think  to  plant  the  seed  in  the  sky, 
it  will  grow  as  in  the  ground  if  you  just  think 
that  way/"  But  we  have  a  Gardener  that  has 
gumption,  and  he  plants  his  seed  in  the  soil, 
and  he  knows  the  sky;  and  he  plants  the  seed  in 
the  soil,  and  the  sky  begins  to  whisper  and  whis¬ 
per  and  whisper  and  whisper,  and  the  seed  so 
dead  asleep  cannot  hear  it.  And  because  the 
seed  cannot  hear  the  whisper,  March  and  April 
put  their  trumpets  against  their  lips  and  the 
wild  winds  blow  gales  and  the  seed  under  the 
sod  says:  “Oh,  who  called  me?  Say,  did  I  hear 
my  name?”  And  the  March  wind  blew  gales 
fifty  miles  an  hour,  and  the  dust  curled  in  the 
sky,  and  some  trees  blew  down  under  the  fury 
of  it.  But,  oh,  the  west  wind  had  to  blow  thunder 
blasts  because  it  is  time  for  the  seed  to  be  getting 
into  the  sky.  And  the  seeds  turned  in  their 
couches  and  said,  “Who  called  me?”  And  then 
the  wild  west  wind  clamored,  and  the  red  rose 
seed  said,  “I  heard  my  name;  I  am  invited  to 
the  sky.”  But  the  Gardener  Christ  does  believe 
in  the  dirt,  and  in  the  seed,  and  in  the  sky.  Some 
people  are  good  believers  in  the  dirt  and  frank 
believers  in  the  seed,  but  have  no  sky,  and  say, 
“I  am  a  matter-of-fact  man  and  believe  in 
the  ground,  to  be  sure,  and  in  the  seed,  to  be 
sure,  but  I  am  not  a  skyey  idealist.”  Oh,  but  the 


THE  GARDENER 


193 


sky — it  is  leaning  over  and  saying:  'Taster, 
climb  to  me.  Come  on.”  That  is  all. 

And  if  you  ever  plant  a  morning-glory  seed — 
which  I  advise  you  to  do  for  the  sheer  pleasure 
of  it — you  will  notice  that  it  is  a  poor  thing, 
brown  and  hopeless  and  almost  formless  in  shape 
or  in  beauty;  but  put  it  in  the  ground,  and  the 
sky  will  call  it,  "Come,  come.”  And  if  you  and 
I  hear  what  the  gardener  doth,  you  can  hear  the 
morning-glory  flower  saying,  "I  am  coming.” 
It  is  like  the  sleepy  voice,  that  is  only  half  awake, 
or  not  quite  half  awake — "Who  called  me?  Was 
I  called?” 

"Hurry,  hurry!”  says  the  wind. 

"I  am  coming.” 

"Hurry,  hurry!”  says  the  wind. 

"I  am  getting  my  things  on,”  says  the  flower. 

"Oh,  hurry,  hurry,  hurry!”  says  the  sky. 

And  then  above  the  ground  comes  the  flash  of 
leaves.  And  then,  if  you  care  to  mark  a  miracle, 
all  foul  and  dispirited,  and  out  of  humor  appar¬ 
ently  with  all  the  world,  and  with  itself  included, 
the  plant  looks  down,  lips  clamped  together  as 
with  an  iron  band;  and  the  sky  says,  "Cheer  up! 
Come  on  up  here,  I  am  waiting  for  you  to  flower  up 
here,”  and  then  the  leaves  expand,  and  the  spran- 
gles  fling  out,  and  the  tendrils  climb  and  climb. 
O  morning-glory  flower,  where  are  you  going, 
morning-glory  flower?  And  the  morning-glory 
says,  "Into  the  sky,  into  the  sky,  into  the  sky!” 
Tendrils  flung  out,  climbing  on  whatsoever  thing 


194 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


there  is  to  climb  on — the  living  branch,  on  the 
wire  netting,  or  the  string  the  child  put  up,  but 
always  climbing  into  the  sky.  And  the  ground 
says:  “You  belong  down  here;  you  seem  to  be 
getting  aristocratical.  You  belong  down  here. 
I  am  your  mother.”  And  the  morning-glory  says: 
“Aye,  but  the  sky  is  my  father.  I  belong  to  the 
sky.”  And  when  the  summer  comes,  and  the 
autumn  approaches,  there  is  the  morning-glory 
with  its  varicolored  trumpets  of  flowers,  and 
every  trumpet,  if  you  had  the  ear  to  hear  it, 
and  the  ear  of  the  poet  to  listen  to  what  it  said, 
would  say,  “I  belong  in  the  sky!”  And  the  gar¬ 
dener  believes  in  the  sky. 

And  then  the  gardener  believes  in  tending. 
The  gardener  knows  that  the  sincerest  poetry  of 
life  is  just  digging  around  in  the  dirt,  just  that! 
O  beloved,  don’t  you  folks  get  tired  just  doing 
the  same  thing  all  the  time?  Woman,  have  you 
ever  been  known  to  make  a  word  of  remark 
about  the  dishwashing  coming  three  times  a  day? 
Have  you?  Have  you  been  heard  to  say  that 
you  didn’t  so  much  mind  to  cook,  but  that  the 
cleaning  up  hampered  your  finer  sensibilities  and 
that  your  aesthetical  tendencies  were  hampered 
by  the  dish  cloth?  And  if  it  came  only  once  a 
week,  not  to  say  three  times  a  day,  and  if  there 
are  children,  ten  times  a  day,  there  might  be 
some  comfort  in  preparing  a  meal;  and  the  gar¬ 
ments  are  around,  and  the  stockings  must  be 
fixed  for  the  feet,  and  the  dinner  must  be  fixed 


THE  GARDENER 


195 


for  the  lips,  and  things  must  be  done  over  and 
over  and  over  and  over.  And  I  confess  that  I 
feel  with  anybody  who  gets  tired  of  the  eternal 
reiteration  of  things.  But  what  is  the  Gardener 
doing?  Oh,  what  he  did  yesterday — digging  in 
the  dirt,  digging  dirt,  tending.  O  Gardener, 
blessed  Gardener,  don’t  get  tired  digging  in  the 
dirt  of  my  heart.  O  blessed  Gardener,  don’t  get 
tired  sowing  the  seeds  in  my  heart.  O  kind 
Gardener,  don’t  forget  to  furnish  me  a  sky.  O 
Gardener,  drench  me  with  thy  rain,  and  en- 
swathe  me  with  thy  dew.  Sweeten  my  breath 
with  thy  south  wind’s  gust,  and  shine  the  lamp¬ 
light  of  thy  stars  on  my  sleeping  face;  turn  the 
wonder  of  thy  moonlight  on  the  place  where  we 
are  trying  to  get  into  thy  sky,  and  waken  me 
with  the  wonder  of  thy  winsome  look  through  the 
eastern  window  of  my  heart.  O  Gardener,  don’t 
get  tired  of  tending  to  my  garden.  He  says, 
“Don’t  worry,  I  never  will!”  Gardeners  go  to 
bed  and  sleep,  but  our  Gardener  stays  awake  all 
the  day  long  and  all  the  night  long. 

And,  beloved,  I  would  have  you  mark  that  the 
gardener  grows  things.  “She  thought  he  was  the 
gardener.”  I  will  talk  of  the  flowers  that  the 
Christ  Gardener  grows  in  the  heart.  One  of 
these  is  the  crocus.  It  is  the  earliest  flower  of 
the  lawn.  It  blooms  close  against  the  winter. 
It  barely  waits  till  the  last  winter  wave  laps  on 
the  shore — and  there  is  the  crocus.  Thank  God, 
there  is  a  flower  the  gardener  hath  that  does  not 


196 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


wait  till  spring  is  here,  but  grows  ere  spring  has 
come — gives  a  prophecy.  Some  of  you  people 
have  not  call  to  wait,  you  are  anguish-bound, 
you  are  winter-girt,  you  look  afar,  and  the  hills 
are  still  clad  with  snow,  the  gray  skies  lower,  the 
falling  rain  is  snowflakes,  and  you  say,  “Winter, 
winter,  winter,  winter !”  And  then  the  Gardener, 
so  that  we  may  not  die  from  the  winter  and 
being  winterbound  and  stormbound,  and  snow¬ 
bound,  where  the  winter’s  drift  is  barely  van¬ 
ished,  displays  the  crocus  blooms.  Oh,  the  Gar¬ 
dener  plants  in  the  heart  the  crocus  flower. 

And  then  this  Gardener  plants  in  the  heart 
the  pansies.  “Pansies,  that’s  for  thoughts,” 
said  Brother  Shakespeare.  Does  the  gardener 
plant  thoughts?  Quite  true.  Do  we  chance  to 
need  flowers,  any  of  them,  more  than  thought 
flowers?  None.  The  Gardener,  whose  name  is 
Christ,  is  planting  thoughts,  thoughts  of  a  better 
life,  thoughts  of  a  day  undimmed  of  despair. 
Truly.  Thoughts  of  service.  Truly.  Thoughts  of 
a  life  that  has  no  weariness.  Truly.  Thoughts 
of  a  day  that  is  not  dark.  Truly.  Thoughts  of  a 
prayer  a  heart  may  offer  that  shall  bring  some¬ 
body  help.  Thoughts.  The  trouble  with  the 
theater,  I  allege  against  it — not  prating,  but 
naming  the  truth — is  it  has  next  to  no  thought. 
It  is  empty-headed.  It  has  no  wonder  of  brain; 
it  does  not  school  people  to  thought,  brave 
thoughts,  and  to  entertain  “thoughts  that  wan¬ 
der  through  eternity.”  It  makes  for  in  tel- 


THE  GARDENER  197 

lectual  lassitude;  it  turns  people  from  brains  to 
eyes. 

And  then  the  Gardener  plants  heartsease.  Oh, 
maybe  you  need  that  flower — heartsease?  What 
ails  your  fingers,  beloved,  that  you  clutch  them 
so  tightly?  What  ails  your  breath,  that  it  stops 
and  then  hastens  like  the  beating  of  a  diseased 
heart?  What  ails  your  voice  that  it  breaks  like 
an  instrument  out  of  tune?  What  ails  your  hand 
that  when  you  reach  out  to  a  friend,  then  all  of 
a  sudden  you  turn  your  face  away  and  your 
hand  shakes,  and  you  say,  “Excuse  me,  excuse 
me5’?  Oh,  well,  you  have  heartache,  and  you 
need  heartsease.  And  then  the  Gardener,  this 
beautiful  Gardener,  this  blessed  Gardener,  he  is 
planting  the  flower  called  heartsease,  and  it  is 
for  the  heartening  of  mankind.  O  heart,  hast 
thou  this  heartsease  flower? 

And  then  this  Gardener  plants  the  red  rose  of 
love.  Every  heart  hath  room  for  its  red-rose 
flower. 

And  this  Gardener  plants  the  amaranth — that 
is  the  flower  of  immortality.  And  when  day 
darkens,  then  we  take  the  amaranth  flower  of 
purple,  and  put  it  up  before  our  sight,  then  we 
know  time  cometh  when  the  curtain  of  dark  is 
not  put  down  and  when  the  dull  lamp  of  evening 
star  is  snuffed  out  by  daylight. 

And  then  this  Gardener  plants  the  flower  of 
the  lily,  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless  life. 
In  this  a  bad  life,  and  bleak?  And  in  that  dull. 


198 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


drear  garden  ground  he  plants  the  seed,  and  lo, 
there  is  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless  life. 
Truly. 

And  then  there  is  the  lily  flower  of  resurrec¬ 
tion.  I  cannot  pass  this  place.  I  must  go  in. 
What  place  is  this?  It  is  an  acre.  Yes.  Whose 
is  it?  God’s  acre.  And  I  must  go  in.  It  has 
winter  on  it.  And,  all  wonderful  enough,  when 
you  go  in,  to  find  the  dull  grave  you  left  and  wept 
across  with  broken  heart,  it  is  all  grown  white 
as  the  moonlight  of  June  with  lilies  of  the 
resurrection. 

O  Mary,  Mary,  you  knew  it,  you  saw  it,  you 
said  it,  for  us.  This  is  the  Gardener.  O  Gar¬ 
dener,  with  thy  smiling  eyes,  O  Gardener,  with 
thy  smiling  lips,  O  Gardener,  with  thy  hands  all 
clad  in  toil,  O  Gardener,  come  my  way,  and 
farm  my  ground  and  plant  my  life  and  make  my 
heart  to  be  a  place  where  grow  the  pansies  and 
the  crocuses,  where  grow  the  amaranth  and  the 
lilies,  and  the  red-rose  flowers  of  life.  O  Gardener, 
stay  by  me,  keep  thy  tryst  with  me;  stay  by  me 
till  the  dusk  has  given  place  to  dawn. 

Beloved,  may  thy  Gardener  go  with  thee,  and 
he  will  do  thee  good.  O  Mary,  Mary,  what 
thought  you,  Mary?  “Oh,”  she  said,  “I  thought 
he  was  the  Gardener.”  Upon  my  word,  be¬ 
loved,  she  thought  not  amiss.  He  is  thy  Gar¬ 
dener,  and  he  is  my  Gardener.  Amen. 


PRAYER 


“Underneath  are  the  everlasting  arms.”  We  have  read 
that  somewhere,  and  where  could  that  somewhere  have 
been  save  in  thy  Holy  Book,  O  Lord,  our  God,  excellent  in 
all  the  earth  and  in  all  the  heavens?  Such  words  do  not 
fall  from  any  lips  save  the  lips  of  God,  and  from  no  word 
save  his  Holy  Word. 

“Underneath  are  the  everlasting  arms,”  thanks  be  to 
thee,  O  Christ.  “Underneath.”  When  we  are  in  a  sea  wreck 
and  the  ship  is  battered  and  the  masts  are  broken  and  we 
are  tossed  like  splinters  on  the  treacherous  waves  which 
bluster  and  hurl  and  break  and  toy  with  our  lives  in  livid 
fury  and  laugh  at  us  while  they  slay  us  and  crush  their 
brutal  fists  in  our  faces  and  we  fall,  sinking  into  the  utter 
depths  of  the  utter  sea,  and  all  their  waves  are  gone  over 
us,  and  we  shall  see  the  light  no  more — then  underneath  are 
not  the  drowning  depths  of  the  drowning  sea,  but  under¬ 
neath  are  the  Everlasting  Arms,  the  Christ-God’s  arms.  And 
we  fall  not  into  the  depths  but  into  the  arms.  Our  mother’s 
arms  would  be  so  sweet,  so  sweet,  our  father’s  arms  would 
be  so  strong,  so  strong.  But  thy  arms,  O  Lord,  the  ever¬ 
lasting  arms,  are  underneath  me  when  I  sink,  and  I  shall 
rise  again.  The  seas  shall  not  wash  me  down.  I  shall  not 
lie  with  ribs  of  wreck  on  sandy  shores.  Underneath  are  the 
everlasting  arms  of  the  everlasting  God,  and  so  am  I  borne 
up  and  toward  my  desired  haven  for  which  blessed  be  my 
God  forever.  Amen. 


200 


XIII 


GOD’S  FULLNESS 

“And  of  his  fullness  have  we  all  received.” — John  1.  16. 

X  have  never  been  so  pulseless  in  my  spiritual 
life  but  that,  however  dull  X  was,  when  I  read 
this  X  had  resurrection.  “And  of  his  fullness” — 
God’s  fullness — “have  we  all  received.”  When 
that  puts  hands  on  me  then  X  lurch  toward  being 
a  man.  There  is  no  excuse  for  the  empty  life. 
If  we  have  access  to  the  fullness  of  God,  X  hope 
we  all  shall  see,  and  I  hope  we  shall  all  feel,  the 
excuselessness  of  the  empty  life  when  it  could 
have  access  to  the  fullness  of  the  mighty  God. 

Suppose  that  a  bay  of  the  sea,  wide,  deep, 
available  for  a  harbor,  with  dented  shore  and 
high  bank,  calm  harbored — suppose  a  gulf  like 
that  dry  as  a  skull,  not  a  drop  of  water  in  it, 
great  armed  like  New  York  harbor,  harbor  meant 
for  the  wonder  and  the  laughter  of  the  sea,  but 
all  dry.  Here  and  there  might  be  pools  of  rancid 
water;  here  and  there  mounds  of  sand  beaten 
with  the  fists  of  the  wind;  only  a  stray  spray  of 
grass,  tossing  idly  when  the  wind  comes  lan¬ 
guorously  by;  no  water,  no  music,  no  rocking  of 
the  ships,  no  rowboat  sagging  in  the  water;  no 

bulk  of  great  merchantman  that  had  tramped 

201 


202 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


across  the  world  in  his  wide  wandering  with  com¬ 
merce  in  his  laden  arms.  None  of  that.  Only 
bleak  pools  of  shifting  sands.  Suppose  that. 
And  then  remember  you  are  also  to  suppose  that 
waiting  to  get  into  the  harbor’s  depths,  and 
wander  all  along  the  shore’s  indentations — wait¬ 
ing  for  that — was  the  sea,  blue,  billowed,  uni¬ 
versal,  glad  holder  of  ships,  pathway  of  com¬ 
merce,  dream  of  romance,  poetry  of  trouble — 
there  stood  the  sea  waiting  to  deluge  the  dry 
and  shifting  sands  with  the  wonder  of  the  blue, 
brackish  water  of  the  momentous  ocean.  Listen, 
beloved;  O  listen!  What  excuse  could  the  in¬ 
dented  shore  and  deep  bay  offer  for  being  dry 
when  the  sea  wanted  to  get  in?  What  excuse? 
No  excuse.  And  man  is  that  wide,  dry  shore 
line.  And  God  is  that  billowing  sea. 

Or,  suppose  that  the  cup  which  holds  Lake 
Tahoe  were  dry  as  dust,  with  great  deep  hollows 
which  the  hand  of  God  in  one  of  its  laughing 
moments  hollowed  out — suppose  it  were  dry  as 
dust.  But  there  stand  the  mountains  crowded 
with  snows,  and  down  the  mountain  gullies  sing 
the  laughing  streams,  and  the  inroad  of  the  sky 
and  the  adjacency  of  the  mountains  and  the 
shelter  the  pines  give  to  the  snowdrifts— all  wanted 
to  fill  the  dried-out  cup  of  Tahoe  full  of  waters. 
And  tell  me  this:  What  excuse  could  Tahoe  give 
for  emptiness  when  the  mountains  stood  ready 
to  pour  snowdrifts  down  to  fill  it  full,  and  the 
streams  ran,  eager  to  pour  their  crystal  waters 


GOD’S  FULLNESS 


203 


down  and  fill  it  full,  and  the  pines  sobbed,  saying, 
“We  are  waiting  to  make  thee  a  drinking  cup 
for  the  gods”?  Answer  me  this:  What  excuse 
could  Tahoe’s  cup  give  for  being  empty  when 
the  mountains  and  the  skies  and  the  pines  and 
the  clouds  and  the  snowdrifts  and  the  streams 
wanted  to  fill  it  full?  O  life!  Man  is  that  dry 
cup  of  Tahoe,  and  God  is  the  mountains  and  the 
sky  and  the  clouds  and  the  pines.  “Of  his  full¬ 
ness  have  we  all  received.” 

I  am  not  here  to  argue  about  the  indemnities 
due  human  life.  I  am  not  here  to  argue  that 
human  life  is  bankrupt  and  that  there  is  not 
even  a  cent  to  be  paid  on  the  dollar.  I  am  not 
here  with  any  design  to  argue  this  case,  but  to 
allow,  in  its  most  drastic  severity  of  type  and 
form,  that  man  is  undone;  that  he  is  a  violin 
with  the  strings  snapped;  he  is  a  piano  with 
the  music  all  gone,  as  if  it  had  been  in  a  flood; 
he  is  an  organ  with  all  the  organ  stops  and  keys 
and  pipes  broken.  I  will  allow  that  this  morning. 
And  all  that  I  am  saying  is  that,  damaged  as  he 
is,  broken  as  he  is,  lost  as  he  is,  he  need  not  stay 
so,  because  “of  his  fullness”  may  we  all  receive. 

And  what  I  am  bringing  this  morning  is  sun¬ 
light  across  the  water.  Hope  for  the  worst  man, 
thank  God;  hope  for  the  weakest  man  and  woman, 
thank  God;  hope  for  the  bankrupt  soul,  thank 
God;  hope  for  the  bleeding  hand  and  broken 
heart,  thank  God.  The  worst,  you  are?  No 


204 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


matter.  He  is  bigger  than  the  worst.  Isn’t  that 
worth  learning?  4 ‘Of  his  fullness  have  we  all 
received.”  O  John,  if  you  wouldn’t  mind,  we  are 
so  anxious,  and  our  hearts  ache  so  and  our  hopes 
are  flung  as  if  the  clouds  whipped  them  and  the 
waves  washed  on  them.  O  John,  if  you  wouldn’t 
mind,  say  it  once  again.  And  he  says,  “Of  his 
fullness  have  we  all  received.”  Right,  John; 
right.  Of  his  fullness  have  we  all  received. 

There  was  a  man  prisoner  for  a  debauched 
crime;  a  man  who  was  culturist;  a  man  who  was 
apostle  of  the  sunflower,  who  talked  much  about 
it  that  was  very  inane  and  some  about  it  that 
was  not  inane.  He  was  in  prison,  like  to  die, 
and  was  feeding  on  black  bread,  and  when  they 
gave  him  white  bread  he  picked  the  crumbs  like 
birds  do.  And  in  that  prison  he  wrote  a  story. 
It  was  the  leaking  of  his  heart.  The  foul  blood 
leaked  down  on  his  hand  and  on  the  page.  And 
I  read  the  story.  And  the  thing  that  impressed 
me  was  this:  that  man,  with  all  his  filthiness  and 
crime,  and  with  all  his  vice,  still  was  nothing 
other  than  a  culturist.  Didn’t  know  God,  didn’t 
want  God;  wanted  only  the  sunflower  and  the 
sunlight.  Is  man  that  bad?  Yes,  beloved, 
yes;  that  bad.  Is  man  that  debased?  Oh, 
yes,  beloved!  I  am  not  arguing  that.  Are  hopes 
gone  out  of  some  people’s  life  like  fire  out  of 
the  ashes?  Oh,  yes;  oh,  yes!  Are  some  people 
black  as  mythological  midnight?  Oh,  yes!  What 
is  the  preacher  saying?  He  is  saying  that  such 


GOD’S  FULLNESS 


205 


a  life  can  get  all  the  fullness  of  God  and  be  empty 
no  more.  Heart,  why  don’t  you  sing  out  loud? 

Didn’t  you  ever  see  what  God  could  do?  Didn’t 
you  go  out  and  see  God  making  the  moonlights? 
Why  didn’t  you?  Didn’t  you  go  out  and  see 
God  making  the  daylights?  Why  didn’t  you? 
“God  said” — and  his  hands  were  folded.  Watch 
that  now.  We  men  and  women  when  we  do 
things  put  our  sleeves  up  to  the  shoulders  and 
the  strenuous  muscles  strain  almost  to  snapping 
and  the  hands  are  eager.  But  I  call  you  to  notice 
that  the  hands  of  God  are  folded,  and  when  he 
wants  to  make  daylight  last  for  the  million 
centuries  all  he  does  is  to  say,  “Let  there 
be  light,”  and  there  is  light.  Did  you  go  out 
and  see  God  when  he  had  the  healing  of  souls 
in  his  hands?  Did  you  see  Jesus  when  he  went 
out  to  cure  sick  souls?  I  am  not  talking  about 
the  healing  of  people’s  bodies,  for  that  is  not 
much  of  a  chore  for  God  to  do.  When  I  hear 
people  talking  about  whether  Jesus  could  open 
blind  eyes  and  cure  lepers  they  vex  me,  for  that 
is  so  little  a  thing  for  God  to  do.  This  matter 
of  bodily  healing  is  a  thing  doctors  can  do,  and 
God  isn’t  going  to  take  the  doctors’  work  out 
of  their  hands.  These  Dowies  have  sinned  against 
the  sense  of  the  world.  God  doesn’t  turn  doctor. 
But  God  can  do  it.  Oh,  yes;  it  is  easy  for  him. 
But  that  is  not  the  thing  I  think  worth  talking 
about.  I  am  talking  about  the  healing  of  souls. 
And  he  found  the  thief  on  the  cross  with  his 


206 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


empty  soul,  and  the  man,  beggar  that  he  was, 
couldn’t  put  his  hands  against  his  eyes,  but  only 
stretched  out  on  the  cross  with  the  blood  oozing 
from  the  palms.  All  he  could  do  was  to  look  with 
his  aching  eyeballs  and  speak  with  his  aching 
lips:  “Oh,  be  merciful!”  And  Christ  healed  his 
soul.  Think  of  it.  And  Mary  Magdalene,  with 
your  long,  black  tresses  down  upon  his  feet  and 
your  kisses  on  the  feet  of  Him  who  was  walking 
the  way  to  Calvary,  O  Mary  Magdalene,  listen 
to  him.  And  he  says,  “Your  sins  which  were 
plenty  are  all  forgiven.”  Did  you  see  God  do 
these  things?  Did  you?  Well,  he  knows  how. 
Listen.  “Of  his  fullness” — oh,  my  empty  heart, 
get  him!  “Of  his  fullness” — oh,  my  empty 
thought,  get  him,  him!  “Of  his  fullness” — oh, 
heart,  you  are  bankrupt,  you  are  bankrupt,  but 
you  can  die  a  billionaire!  Oh,  will,  you  are 
bankrupt,  you  are  a  raveling  whipped  in  the 
wind,  but  you  can  die  strong  and  tall  as  the 
cross!  Hear  this.  “Of  his  fullness” — that  is  the 
way  to  get  might. 

This  is  an  empty  page,  did  you  notice?  Not  a 
single  character  on  it.  And  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
comes  by  and  sees  the  empty  page,  and  it  is  no 
trouble  for  a  genius  to  fill  an  empty  page,  is  it? 
No  trouble  at  all.  All  the  trick  is  to  be  a  genius. 
And  Edgar  Allan  Poe  came  by  and  saw  the 
empty  page  and  wrote  “The  Bells,”  and  I  hear 
them  ringing  yet.  And  he  saw  the  empty  page 


GOD’S  FULLNESS 


207 


and  wrote  on  it  “Ulalume.”  And  he  saw  the 
empty  page  and  scrolled  on  it  a  black,  unblink¬ 
ing  raven  that  never  moved  from  the  door,  but 
stays  there  yet  and  haunts  the  page.  And  he 
wrote  “Annabel  Lee,”  which  is  a  sob  for  the 
woman  who  comes  no  more  and  the  arms  that  are 
empty  forever.  He  wrote  “The  City  of  the  Sea.” 
Did  you  think  it  strange  that  the  page  which 
was  empty  and  characterless  had  immortal  poems 
on  it?  Not  at  all.  The  strange  thing  would  have 
been  if  the  genius  had  found  the  empty  page  and 
hadn’t  filled  it.  No  trouble.  No  trouble  for  a 
genius. 

This  is  a  box  lid,  and  we  are  going  to  use  it 
for  kindling,  you  and  I,  and  the  “Farmer  Painter” 
came  by  and  took  the  box  lid  and  scraped  it  and 
borrowed  the  sunlights  of  autumn  as  if  he  had 
a  golden  cluster  of  grapes — as  if  the  grapes  had 
grown  in  the  vineyards  of  the  sun — golden  sun¬ 
flower  clusters — and  he  squeezed  the  colors  out 
and  put  the  colors  on,  and  there  were  ears  of 
corn  that  you  could  have  shelled.  Was  that 
strange?  No.  Think  it  not  strange,  when  Mont¬ 
gomery  did  that.  It  would  have  been  strange 
if  he  could  have  seen  the  box  and  let  it  go  tenant¬ 
less.  That  would  have  been  strange. 

This  other  day — Friday,  was  it? — here  along 
the  east  shore  of  the  lake,  the  waves  lunging  in, 
every  wave  shouting  with  its  teeth  shut,  “Death! 
Death!  Death!”  And  a  ship  was  caught  and 
was  lunged  by  the  billows  onto  the  sand.  How 


208 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


the  gales  hurled,  and  how  the  billows  broke,  and 
how  the  ship  sagged,  and  how  the  women  wept, 
and  how  the  men  prayed,  and  looked  on  death, 
death,  death,  death.  And  there  was  a  lifeboat 
man  came  part  way  and  caught  a  rag  of  rope, 
clung  to  it,  though  it  ate  his  hand  clean  to  the 
bone,  empty  of  flesh;  came  up,  battered,  up  to 
the  ship’s  side — came  and  stood  all  day  long  till 
every  passenger  was  on  the  shore.  Then,  at 
last,  when  the  captain  and  his  crew — brave  men 
all  of  them — would  not  go  on  the  shore,  he  at 
last  went  on  shore,  where  people  tried  to  kiss 
his  feet,  but  he  hasted  away.  What  a  day  that 
was!  Black  universe  of  glorious  cruelty.  But 
that  man  invaded  that  day  with  glory  of  heroic 
life.  Say,  tell  me  now,  is  that  strange?  No. 
That  is  not  strange!  He  had  it  on  hand.  If  you 
have  heroism,  you  can  get  rid  of  it  when  the 
time  comes.  The  trick  is  to  have  it  on  hand 
where  it  will  keep.  “Of  his  fullness”!  Is  that 
strange?  No;  that  is  just  worthy;  that  is  all. 
“Of  his  fullness  have  we  all  received.”  That  is 
not  strange.  The  only  strange  thing  about  it 
is  that  we  haven’t  taken  it.  That  is  the  strange 
thing.  We  don’t  need  to  be  bankrupt  any  more, 
nor  shipwrecked;  no,  nor  lambasted  by  the  gale. 
“Of  his  fullness.”  Get  that. 

We  are  weak.  Let  us  not  forget  that!  Say, 
man,  you  are  pretty  big,  aren’t  you?  You  think 
you  could  just  give  death  a  tussle,  don’t  you? 
But  you  don’t  know.  He  will  spit  in  your  face 


GOD’S  FULLNESS 


209 


and  trample  you  down.  He  will  breathe  on  you 
and  you  will  die.  He  doesn’t  need  to  lift  his 
finger  to  slay  you.  Death  will  trample  you  under 
his  feet.  And  you  thought  you  were  strong;  but 
you  are  weak.  And  so  many  of  us  fellows — we 
big  men — are  weak  in  spirit.  I  should  like  to  get 
an  invasion  of  spunk  into  some  people.  Some 
women  know  that  they  are  living  a  poor,  scrawny 
life,  given  over  to  social  duties,  rather  than  to 
God,  but  they  haven’t  spunk  enough  to  be  quit 
of  it.  What  of  it?  Oh,  get  the  fullness  of  the 
Almighty  God! 

I  saw  just  this  other  day,  a  weak  woman  that 
hadn’t  walked  for  many  years — just  a  poor, 
weak  body.  Pain  sat  by  her  and  played  with 
her,  just  for  fun.  Pain  is  such  a  malignant  fellow. 
Pain  had  sat  by  her  and  played  sword’s  play  with 
her  for  years,  and  when  she  fell  asleep  he  would 
jab  his  sword  into  her  and  say,  “Wake  up, 
wake  up,  I  am  sitting  by  you.”  She  is  so  wasted, 
just  a  ghost.  Can  scarcely  walk  at  all — just  a 
trifle.  And  she  has  a  son;  and  didn’t  I  tell  you 
how  weak  his  mother  was,  how  wasted  with 
disease,  how  emaciated,  how  hacked  with  the 
swordplay  of  pain — but  when  that  boy  comes 
around  and  takes  his  mother  in  his  arms,  tenderly 
as  if  she  were  a  baby,  and  carries  her,  I  have  seen 
her  go  upstairs  two  steps  at  a  jump;  no  trouble 
for  weakness  to  get  up  two  steps  then.  Our 
God  takes  us  up  the  steps  two  at  a  bound!  We 
need  it.  Strength  is  fullness.  Not  weak  any  more. 


210 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


The  empty  head!  Did  you  ever  see  a  lad  way 
back  somewhere — no  odds  where — there  are  plenty 
of  wheres  for  lads  to  be.  He  had  no  books,  had 
to  borrow  them,  didn’t  know  anything.  Didn’t 
know  Shakespeare  had  ever  been  to  Avon;  didn’t 
know  that  Chaucer  had  ever  been  to  France, 
and  came  home  to  sip  his  wine  as  poet  laureate; 
didn’t  know  that  Longfellow  sat  in  the  twilight 
and  made  music  drop  from  his  heart;  didn’t 
know  that  Burke  had  ever  surpassed  himself 
in  the  world  of  eloquence;  didn’t  know  that 
Caesar  had  ever  tramped  the  Alps  down,  and 
startled  nations;  didn’t  know  that  Napoleon 
had  flayed  the  world;  didn’t  know  anything.  A 
poor,  backwoods  boy,  no  matter  now,  no  time 
to  talk  about  that — that  boy  got  a  book  and 
another  book  and  another  book  and  another 
book.  And  now  that  boy  over  at  New  York 
town  or  Boston  town  or  Chicago  town  has  writ¬ 
ten  books,  and  the  world  has  wanted  to  know 
what  he  said.  Empty?  Yes.  But  he  didn’t 
have  to  stay  empty.  The  fullness,  He  received 
the  fullness.  He  didn’t  need  to  stay  empty. 
The  fullness  of  God.  Give  us  thy  thought,  O 
God!  lest  our  brain  be  like  the  barn  floor,  empty 
for  the  thrashing. 

Empty  of  tenderness.  Don’t  need  to  stay  so. 
No,  thank  God!  Say,  friends,  what  do  you 
think  is  the  worst  of  worst  calamities?  Some¬ 
times  I  think  one  thing  and  another  and  then 


GOD’S  FULLNESS 


211 


another.  It  is  according  to  how  my  thinker 
runs.  There  are  so  many  things  to  think;  we 
think  this,  and  another  time,  if  we  haven’t  a 
petrified  thinker,  we  think  another  thing.  But  I 
am  inclined  to  think  the  worst  of  calamities  is 
the  calamity  of  the  untender  heart — the  voice 
that  has  no  reminder  of  the  heart,  the  head  that 
has  no  connection  with  the  heart.  What  ailed 
Lachlan  Campbell?  A  hard  heart.  Poor  Lachlan 
Campbell!  And  his  daughter  went  away  and 
was  lost.  Flora  Campbell — do  you  remember — 
it  is  in  Beside  the  Bonnie  Brier  Bush  you  shall 
hear  this  music  of  this  twilight  sparrow.  And 
old  Lachlan  Campbell — “Lachlan,  where’s  Flora?” 
“Aya,  dinna  speak  to  me.  Dinna  speak  to  me.” 
And  you  dare  not  speak  to  Lachlan  Campbell 
about  Flora.  She  is  lost  and  gone  away,  and 
gone  away  and  lost!  She  has  gone  away,  gone 
away,  lost,  lost!  People  don’t  get  lost  until  they 
are  gone  away;  and  people  don’t  get  gone  away 
until  they  are  lost.  Lachlan  Campbell,  your  face 
is  hard  as  chiseled  flint;  and  Margaret  Howe 
came  in  and  said:  “Lachlan  Campbell,  dinna  God 
be  merciful  to  you  and  pitiful?  He  be  pitiful  to 
you,  Lachlan  Campbell;  ye  noo  be  pitiful  to 
Flora.”  Flora  Campbell  coming  home  the  nicht! 
Flora,  will  the  light  be  lighted  and  will  the  door 
be  opened  and  will  the  old  man  see  you?  Poor 
Flora  Campbell,  whispering  through  the  moon¬ 
light,  watching  with  her  wounded  heart,  her 
shamed  heart,  and  when  she  came  around  and 


212 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


saw  the  house  by  the  glen  there  was,  aye,  a  lamp 
lit  in  the  window,  thank  God!  A  lamp  lit  in  the 
window!  And  she  ran,  and  ere  she  came  to  the 
door  the  door  opened;  and  a  voice  like  the  voice 
of  tears  running  to  music  said,  “Flora,  Flora!” 
And  she  was  like  a  soul  that  had  found  shelter, 
and  he  held  her  to  his  heart.  And  in  the  book 
from  which  the  name  of  Flora  Campbell  had 
been  scratched — “Nae  daughter  o’  this  house,  nae 
daughter  o’  mine” — in  that  book  Lachlan  Camp¬ 
bell  wrote,  “Flora,  missed.”  If  you  have  a  barren 
heart  you  needn’t  keep  it.  Why  not?  Because 
“of  his  fullness  might  we  all  receive!”  And  he 
that  died  of  heartache — think  of  it.  He  that 
died  of  heartache  is  able  to  give  us  all  heartache; 
and  heartache  is  one  of  the  chiefest  mercies  that 
ever  invaded  a  soul. 

And  He  that  died  of  heartache  is  able  to  give 
us  tenderness.  And  He  that  died  of  heartache 
will  be  able  to  invade  our  empty  lives  with  ten¬ 
derness  untold. 

Lachlan  Campbell,  who  is  that  about  the  house? 

And  Lachlan  Campbell  says:  “Dinna  ye  ken? 
Flora,  Flora!” 

“Lachlan  Campbell,  who  is  getting  supper 
ready?” 

“Aw,  dinna  ye  ken.  Flora?” 

“And,  Lachlan  Campbell,  who  will  sit  at  the 
table  head  and  pour  the  tay?” 

And  Lachlan  Campbell  says,  “Flora!  Dinna  ye 
ken,  my  Flora?” 


GOD’S  FULLNESS 


213 


Who’s  been  over  to  Lachlan  Campbell’s  heart? 
Christ! 

Aye,  folks,  it’s  tender  time.  I  hear  the  chil¬ 
dren  singing  and  I  profess  to  love  to  hear  the 
song,  “It’s  Half-Past  Kissing  Time,  and  Time  to 
Kiss  Again!”  I  don’t  know  who  wrote  it,  but  he 
had  the  notion  right.  It’s  always  half-past  kiss¬ 
ing  time,  and  always  time  to  kiss  again!  Listen, 
now;  it  is  Easter!  Now  it’s  half -past  giving  time; 
time  to  give  again.  Half -past  tender  time;  time 
to  be  tender  again!  Half -past  loving  time;  time 
to  love  again!  Heart!  What  ails  you,  anyhow? 
Sing  thy  answer,  Heart — “Of  his  fullness  have 
we  all  received!” 


PRAYER 

O  Christ,  blessed  be  God  that  our  conversation  is  in 
heaven.  We  do  not  want  it  to  be  anywhere  else.  We  be¬ 
long  to  thee,  and  thou  belongest  to  us,  and  we  belong  to 
heaven.  Give  us  a  long,  sweet  springtime  and  summer  in 
the  land  of  eternal  life.  For  Christ’s  sake.  Amen. 


214 


XIV 


OUR  CONVERSATION  IS  IN  HEAVEN 

“Our  conversation  is  in  heaven.” — Phil.  3.  20. 

I  wish  you  would  read  this  with  me.  I  did 
not  say  it;  I  could  not.  I  did  not  think  it  up; 
I  could  not.  And  if  I  had  thought  it  up,  I  should 
not  have  dared  to  say  it.  I  should  have  thought 
it  was  poetry  and  that  it  had  better  not  be  talked. 
Here  it  is:  “Our  conversation  is  in  heaven.” 
I  would  read  on,  but  I  cannot  go  further.  I 
think  we  will  stop  there:  “Our  conversation  is 
in  heaven.”  The  American  Revision  says,  “Our 
citizenship  is  in  heaven.”  I  love  the  American 
Revision  as  a  subsidiary  voice,  but  I  love  that 
great  old  music  box  of  the  old  version,  because 
when  we  read  it  out  loud  it  is  like  hearing  John 
Milton  at  an  organ  playing  on  the  organ  and 
singing  “Our  conversation  is  in  heaven.” 

Now,  someone  is  saying,  “Let  us  be  careful 
how  he  has  his  exegesis.”  Some  people  never 
can  get  further  than  exegesis.  Exegesis  is  a  good 
place  to  start,  but  a  poor  place  to  conclude. 
Let  us  pay  attention  to  the  lift  of  the  voice  of 
God.  It  would  appear  that  “in  heaven”  is  the 
end  of  this  strophe.  And  “in  heaven”  is  where 
the  stars  are,  and  the  mornings,  and  the  suns  that 


216 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


we  cannot  see  but  know  are  there.  It  would  seem 
as  if,  according  to  this  poet,  we  were  amongst 
the  heavenly  bodies,  and  it  would  seem  as  if  we 
were  a  part  of  the  celestial  geography  and  a  part 
of  the  divine  astronomy. 

It  is  said  that  we  talk  about  heaven  too  much. 
My  mind  and  observation  are  that  we  do  not 
talk  about  it  enough.  The  ground  is  good—oh, 
it  is  good  ground!  I  am  like  John  Burroughs 
in  one  matter:  whenever  I  see  newly  plowed 
ground  I  want  to  eat  it — it  smells  so  good,  and 
I  think  it  might  taste  better;  but  out  of  defer¬ 
ence  to  the  crops  I  forbear.  It  is  a  blessed  ground: 
It  bringeth  forth  violets  and  sweet  williams  by 
the  flowing  waters,  and  it  bringeth  forth  daisies 
on  the  hill,  and  it  bringeth  forth  sunflowers  on 
the  prairie.  The  ground  is  good,  but  there  is 
not  enough  of  it  for  the  kingdom  of  God  to  house 
its  folks  in.  This  world  is  not  big  enough  for 
God  to  hold  a  love  feast  in.  He  has  got  to  have 
heaven  so  as  to  get  the  folks  in.  We  have  got 
to  have  a  bigger  country  and  we  have  got  to  have 
a  longer  life  together.  This  country  is  going 
to  quit  after  a  while.  I  do  not  remember  the 
date,  and  if  I  did  I  would  not  mention  it  this 
morning;  but  it  will  not  stay  long  enough. 

Was  not  brainy,  beloved  Bishop  Smith  here 
four  years  ago?  Yes.  Where  is  he  now?  In 
heaven.  Was  not  Bishop  Walden  here  four  years 
ago,  with  his  stooped  shoulders  and  his  strange, 
keen  eye?  Yes.  Where  is  he  now?  In  heaven. 


OUR  CONVERSATION  IS  IN  HEAVEN  217 


Was  not  Bishop  Warren  here,  with  his  stalwart 
figure  that  looked  as  if  he  could  walk  across  the 
landscape  of  eternity  and  never  get  tired?  Yes. 
Where  is  he?  He  is  on  the  landscape  of  eternity, 
taking  his  walk.  Was  not  Robert  McIntyre  here 
four  years  ago,  with  his  dreamy,  far-away  look? 
Yes.  Where  is  he?  He  is  where  he  looked.  Was 
not  Bishop  Moore  here,  with  the  spirit  of  a 
soldier  and  the  heart  of  an  angel?  Yes.  Where 
is  he?  He  is  over  where  soldiership  and  angel¬ 
hood  are  one.  Was  not  Naphtali  Luccock,  the 
crystal  soul  and  winsome  personality,  here?  Where 
is  he  now?  He  is  with  the  crystal  Christ.  Ah, 
that  company  of  bishops,  brethren:  They  were 
here  but  a  few  years  ago,  and  they  are  not  here 
now.  But  we  have  to  get  acclimated  to  the 
country  where  we  are  going  to  be  forever.  “Our 
conversation  is  in  heaven.” 

What  is  conversation?  Well,  I  am  sure  it  is 
all  we  are  in  the  long  run.  If  you  listen  to  a  man 
talk  long  enough,  you  will  hear  all  he  knows — 
plus.  “Our  conversation  is  in  heaven.”  Ah, 
brothers,  whether  it  be  exegesis  or  not,  let  us 
know  this,  that  whatever  we  say  ends  in  heaven. 
Why?  This  end  of  the  sentence  is  here,  but  the 
other  end  of  the  sentence  is  always  in  heaven. 
A  woman,  a  preacher’s  wife — and  her  husband 
is  here  this  morning — said  to  me,  with  a  strange 
quaver  in  her  voice,  like  music  beginning,  “You 
know,  Brother  Quayle,  our  daughter,  our  only 
daughter,  is  in  the  glory  land.”  Ah,  me:  She 


218 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


began  talking  of  a  daughter  here,  and  she  ended 
talking  of  a  daughter  there.  The  other  end  of 
our  conversation  is  always  in  heaven,  thank  God. 
We  are  all  orators  when  we  get  religion,  because 
the  other  end  of  our  talk  is  heavenly  eloquence. 

Someone  says,  “This  word  means  ‘occupation.’  ” 
Yes,  it  does,  thank  God!  It  means  “occupa¬ 
tion” — our  occupation  is  in  heaven.  You  say: 
“No,  it  is  in  Dover.  It  is  in  New  York.  It  is 
in  Kansas  City.”  Where  are  Dover,  New  York, 
and  Kansas  City?  They  are  down  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill  called  Zion,  right  down  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill;  and  if  you  look  up,  when  the  smoke 
shifts,  you  will  see  the  glittering  of  the  holy 
towers,  and  hear  the  voice  of  God  as  he  looks 
over  and  says,  down  to  the  world:  “Good  morn¬ 
ing,  occupation.  Good  morning.”  Down  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill  the  job  goes  on,  but  at  the  top 
of  the  hill  the  job  concludes. 

Money — I  heard  that  word  once;  although  I 
am  not  strictly  familiar  with  it,  I  have  heard  the 
word — what  is  money?  Something  to  be  earned 
on  the  ground  and  invested  in  eternity.  That  is 
money.  And  as  we  work  at  our  work  what  are 
we  doing?  Said  a  woman,  “I  am  just  an  ordinary 
woman,  and  I  am  taking  care  of  the  baby.” 
Thank  God!  God  is  mothering  the  baby  too;  and 
you  and  God  together  will  rear  the  baby. 

A  woman  who  is  rearing  a  baby — what  is  she 
doing?  Hearing  somebody  for  eternity.  Our 
occupations  are  all  not  only  under  the  eye  of  God, 


OUR  CONVERSATION  IS  IN  HEAVEN  219 


but  they  are  in  the  territory  of  eternity.  Our 
occupation  is  in  heaven,  thank  God!  Man,  you 
who  sweep  the  street,  sweep  it  well;  and  maybe 
God  will  give  you  a  job  sweeping  the  golden 
pavement  after  a  while — if  you  do  your  work 
well  here.  He  will  need  somebody  to  do  that 
sort  of  work.  When  some  of  the  saints  come  in 
and  walk  over  the  pavement  he  will  need  some¬ 
one  to  sweep  the  dust  away.  Man,  you  who 
are  a  statesman,  get  eager  for  God,  and  maybe 
he  will  call  you  into  his  Cabinet  in  heaven.  Our 
occupation  is  in  heaven.  Thank  God! 

But  our  friendship,  where  is  it?  It  is  in  heaven 
too.  You  know,  I  am  one  of  the  vagabonds  of 
God,  by  the  grace  of  my  brethren.  They  said 
to  me:  “Brother  Quayle,  you  may  go  as  an  itin¬ 
erant;  and  out  in  places  where  people  are  not 
careful  what  they  hear,  you  may  speak.”  So 
there  I  am  and  do  you  know,  people  sometimes 
say  to  me,  “Why,  Brother  Quayle,  do  you  not 
get  tired  of  going  around  and  seeing  people?” 
No,  praise  God!  Why?  Because  I  am  making 
friendships  for  eternity.  I  am  just  picking  up 
some  new  friends,  so  that  if  I  get  to  heaven,  with 
God  lifting  a  lot  and  myself  lifting  a  little,  when 
I  come  to  the  door  of  eternity  maybe  a  great 
company  will  say,  “Brother  Quayle,  welcome.” 
Our  friendships  are  in  eternity.  Here  we  are, 
all  together,  and  the  next  time  we  meet  we  will 
be  in  heaven.  Thank  God!  We  must  not  miss 
it.  In  heaven  is  our  appropriate  country.  Robert 


220 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Browning  talks  about  “our  appropriate”  country. 
Our  appropriate  country  is  in  heaven,  and  we  are 
now  in  it,  but  in  which  end?  The  north  end. 
Oh,  listen,  brothers ! 

The  north  end  of  heaven  is  where  the  eternal 
cold  stays,  where  the  spring  winds  have  no  warmth, 
where  the  winters  are  all  the  year  round  wild 
and  tumultuous.  What  is  the  south  end?  Where 
everlasting  spring  abides.  In  the  south  end  of 
heaven  we  are  going  to  be  put.  We  are  in  the 
north  end  of  heaven  now,  but  flowers  are  bloom¬ 
ing  even  here  on  the  snowdrifts,  thank  God. 

There  was  a  man  I  knew  who  had  a  daughter, 
and  that  daughter  had  never  been  away  from 
home  at  all  to  speak  of.  There  came  a  time  when 
she  was  going  to  be  married.  Her  father’s  custom 
had  always  been  to  tuck  that  girl  in  bed  at  night. 
No  matter  how  late  he  came  in — and  he  was  out 
late  at  nights  on  the  Lord’s  errands — her  door 
was  left  ajar  and  he  was  ordered  by  his  child  to 
come  and  tuck  her  in  bed;  and  so  always,  what¬ 
ever  time  of  the  night  he  came  in,  he  would  go 
in  softly  and  tuck  her  in  and  kiss  her.  And  some¬ 
times  she  would  partly  awaken,  and  say,  “Hello, 
daddy”;  and  he  would  say,  “Good  night,  sweet¬ 
heart.”  And  so  it  came  to  the  last  night  that 
she  should  be  under  his  roof.  He  went  in,  and 
his  heart  was  full  of  aching  and  full  of  tears; 
but  he  neither  showed  heartache  nor  tears.  He 
smiled  at  her,  and  she  said  to  him,  “You  are  go¬ 
ing  to  tuck  me  in?”  and  he  said,  “Yes,  I  will  tuck 


OUR  CONVERSATION  IS  IN  HEAVEN  221 


you  in.”  So  he  went  in  that  last  night  she  was 
to  be  under  his  roof  and  under  the  shadow  of  his 
love,  and  he  tucked  her  in;  and  she  put  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  drew  him  close,  and  he  put 
his  arms  around  her  and  said,  “My  daughter”; 
and  she  just  said,  “Daddy”;  and  he  tucked  her 
in.  I  wonder  if  God,  in  the  last  night  that  we 
are  to  be  in  our  home  on  the  ground,  will  not 
come  down  and  tuck  us  in.  When  our  eyelids 
droop,  and  our  voices  falter,  and  we  can  hear 
no  sound,  Someone  will  be  there;  and  it  will 
be  God,  and  he  will  tuck  us  in:  and  he  will  say, 
“Sleep  sweetly”;  and  then  he  will  stay  right 
there,  and  will  not  go  away,  and  by  and  by  he 
will  awaken  us  with  a  kiss,  and  say,  “It  is 
morning.” 


PRAYER 


We  give  God  thanks  that  in  his  Book,  earth’s  grimmest 
enemy  is  taken  by  the  throat.  Sin  is  dealt  harshly  with. 
No  diffident  intimation  of  its  name,  no  shrugging-shouldered 
passing  of  it  by  as  if  it  were  a  passing  mischance,  but  an 
honest  look  of  loathing  as  sin  simpers  by  or  struts  or  makes 
its  shameful  and  shameless  boastings.  God  calls  sin,  sin. 
He  does  not  name  it  mistake,  or  mischance.  He  calls  it 
wickedness.  He  will  not  have  it  near  his  house  nor  near 
himself.  Its  breath  is  baleful.  Its  flesh  is  putrid.  It 
shames  the  air.  It  stenches  wherever  it  comes.  God  is 
against  it. 

Aaron  for  himself  made  offering  before  he  could  offer 
for  the  people.  Sin  is  at  everybody’s  door.  It  must  be 
slain.  The  scapegoat  on  whose  head  sins  were  poured  was 
led  out  into  some  lonely  wilderness  of  desolation,  and  then 
he  who  led  it  must  cleanse  himself.  The  scapegoat  gave 
off  contagion,  so  foul  sin  is. 

Lord,  by  these  object  lessons  teach  the  dullest  of  us  what 
sin  is,  and  how  terrible  it  is,  and  what  God  thinks  of  it,  and 
how  God  abhors  it,  and  what  it  took  God  to  get  rid  of  it, 
even  the  life  and  death  of  his  Son.  God’s  scapegoat  was 
our  Christ.  He  went  out  into  Death’s  grim  wilderness 
with  the  world’s  sin  upon  his  head.  Small  wonder  that 
he  died. 

Lord,  for  the  Lamb  of  God  that  it  taketh  away  the  sin 
of  the  world  we  give  thee  daily  thanks,  hourly  thanks.  Sin 
is  ruinous,  but  need  not  ruin  us.  We  have  a  Deliverer. 
“He  shall  be  called  Jesus,  for  he  shall  save  his  people  from 
their  sins.”  We  may  be  counted  part  of  that — “his  people.” 
Make  us  hate  sin,  shun  sin,  seek  cleansing  for  sin  by  the 
only  remedy  this  world  has  ever  known.  By  the  blood  of 
Jesus  make  us  every  whit  clean.  O  Lord,  we  need  the 
Christ.  Amen. 


222 


XV 


THE  FRIEND  OF  THE  BRUISED  REED 

“A  bruised  reed  shall  he  not  break.” — Isa.  1$.  3. 

There  are  times  when  a  preacher  covets  to 
the  point  of  heartbreak  the  gift  of  reading.  I 
have  heard  tell  of  a  man  who  read  the  Lord’s 
Prayer  with  such  tenderness  of  feeling  that  when 
people  heard  it  they  wept.  And  I  really  think 
that  so  copious  an  utterance — at  once  so  full  of 
earth  and  heaven,  at  once  so  full  of  rest  and 
strenuous  endeavor — as  the  Lord’s  Prayer  should 
be  able  to  be  recited  so  as  to  break  up  the  great 
deeps  of  the  human  heart.  But  we  do  not  in  the 
main  know  how.  If  only  there  were  a  reader 
here — not  a  reciter,  not  that,  not  an  elocutionist, 
not  that,  but  a  reader — I  think  he  would  read 
the  text  I  have  announced  so  as  to  make  your 
hearts  ache.  Would  to  God  that  I  could  read 
it,  but  I  cannot.  “A  bruised  reed  shall  he  not 
break.” 

This  prophet  has  his  eyes  on  the  face  of  some 
infinite  tenderness.  He  is  looking  up  and  away 
and  out  and  far  off,  and  he  sees  not  simply  a 
strong,  triumphant  face  like  Caesar’s  or  Napo¬ 
leon’s,  not  simply  a  face  vast  in  resolution  and 
untroubled  by  despair,  but  he  sees  that  face 

223 


224 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


fallen  to  tenderness.  It  is  as  if  Napoleon  smiled 
upon  his  baby,  the  king  of  Rome;  it  is  as  if  Caesar 
had  forgotten  he  were  the  lord  of  an  empire  and 
remembered  only  that  he  had  compassion  for 
somebody’s  pain.  But  will  you  remark  that 
when  this  prophet  saw  this  face,  looking,  looking, 
looking — saw  the  face — he  had  to  see  it;  he  never 
could  have  told  of  it  if  he  hadn’t  seen  it.  No¬ 
body  can  affirm  what  he  hasn’t  experienced.  He 
saw  a  face,  and  he  saw  that  this  is  so  tender  that 
a  bruised  reed  it  would  not  break.  And  this 
prophet  dwelt  in  an  era  of  acerbity;  he  dwelt  in 
an  era  of  cruelty,  when  it  was  a  part  of  the  amen¬ 
ity  of  war  to  take  prisoners  and  thrust  spears 
into  both  their  eyeballs  and  turn  them,  blind  and 
silenced,  out  to  die.  He  dwelt  in  the  bitter  era 
when  they  cut  off  men’s  right  hands  at  the  wrist 
so  they  could  never  be  bowmen  again,  bend  the 
bow,  send  the  arrow  to  the  heart,  And  he  had  a 
vision  of  strength  that  was  grown  tender,  and  he 
had  a  vision  of  a  brain  that  had  a  heart,  and  he 
had  a  vision  of  might  that  had  learned  gentleness. 
O  beloved,  I  would  to  God  we  might  learn  what  a 
vision  that  was,  and  how  needed.  It  was  the 
business  of  might  to  bruise  the  reed,  take  it,  crush 
it,  let  it  lie  bleeding.  Who  cares  if  it  die?  That 
was  power.  Power  is  mutilative.  Power  crushes. 
Power  is  like  the  elephant’s  tread. 

This  is  the  picture:  The  Jordan’s  tortuous 
stream,  zigzagging  in  and  out,  with  its  turbid. 


THE  FRIEND  OF  THE  BRUISED  REED  225 


turbulent  flow;  and  the  beasts  of  prey  come  down 
to  the  waters  to  lap  their  drink.  And  they  crush 
down  at  nighttime,  when  the  stars  come  out, 
and  set  their  feet  on  whatsoever  impedes  their 
progress,  and  the  reeds  are  there,  answering  to 
the  wind,  and  the  reeds  are  there,  pitifully  weak, 
and  the  reeds  are  there,  foredoomed  to  be  crushed 
by  the  cruel  oncoming  of  the  thoughtless  feet; 
and  the  beast  crushes  down  what  he  will  and 
goes  and  takes  his  drink,  and  goes  back  to  the 
desert  hills  to  cry  aloud  for  food  at  his  midnight. 
But  the  reed,  weak  at  its  strongest,  bruised, 
totters  on  that  weakness  of  stem,  with  the  wound 
of  which  it  could  easily  die;  and  if  the  wind  comes 
fitful  and  free,  or  if  the  wind  snarls  a  little  down 
the  Jordan  valley,  or  snarls  a  little  across  the 
stream,  then  the  bruised  reed  will  break.  “A 
bruised  reed  will  he  not  break.”  A  compassion 
is  somewhere  which  takes  cognizance  of  weak¬ 
ness.  Strength  is  somewhere  which  does  not 
mutilate  or  frighten;  a  hand  is  somewhere  which 
does  not  crush  into  a  fist  and  strike  like  the 
hammer  of  Thor  strikes,  but  reaches  out  like  a 
man’s  caress  of  a  sleeping  babe.  Oh,  would  to 
God  that  we  might  look  upon  the  face! 

And  I  am  of  the  opinion,  beloved,  that  maybe, 
after  all  is  said,  we  people  have  not  given  correct 
estimate  to  negations  in  character;  we  have  not 
considered  how  much  is  added  to  character  by 
subtraction;  we  have  not  estimated,  perchance, 
what  I  will  call  the  addition  by  subtraction. 


226 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Life  is  made  or  slain  ofttimes  by  the  things  we 
are  not  as  certainly  as  by  the  things  that  we 
are.  Here  is  gentleness.  What  might  gentleness 
be  defined  to  be?  Well,  gentleness  is  might  grown 
tender.  It  is  like  a  sick  woman  lying  all  the  year 
through  watching  as  eventide  comes  for  the  face 
of  her  husband,  quieting  her  heart  through  the 
days  by  his  homecoming  at  night;  watching  not 
the  dial  of  the  clock  and  the  hour  and  minute 
hand  while  they  flick,  but  watching  the  nearness 
to  his  coming  and  his  kiss  upon  the  lips.  And 
then  there  is  his  step  in  the  hall,  and  the  hurry¬ 
ing  feet  to  the  room,  and  the  woman  with  the 
smiling  face  turned  her  husband’s  way,  and  the 
faint  voice  saying,  “You  have  come,”  and  the 
strong  voice  saying,  “I  am  here.” 

And  if  you  chance  to  have  a  heart,  which, 
please  God,  may  you  have  plenty  of,  if  you  would 
care  to  wait  and  see  that  strong  man’s  strong 
hands  hold  his  wife’s  hands — almost  transparent 
they  are  against  the  light,  and  his  hands  are  so 
big  and  so  rugged,  so  fearful,  so  strong;  so  meant 
to  cope  with  dangers;  so  qualified  to  tussle  with 
strength;  so  masterful,  so  imperious,  so  brutal, 
if  he  will;  those  strong  hands  of  a  strong  strength’s 
might — if  you  want  to  see  a  poem  that  needs  no 
music  set  to  it,  stay  beside  and  watch  how  the 
woman  reaches  out  her  two  weak,  wan  hands 
and  how  the  strong  man’s  strong  hands  hold 
them.  And  the  woman  looks  at  him  and  smiles, 
and  the  two  huge,  strengthful  hands  hold  the  two 


THE  FRIEND  OF  THE  BRUISED  REED  227 


small,  strengthless  hands.  And  her  hands  have 
gotten  home.  What  is  the  matter  with  the 
mighty  hands’  might?  Oh,  it  has  grown  to  gen¬ 
tleness.  It  would  be  no  trick  for  the  strong 
hands  to  crush  the  little  hands  till  the  bones 
fairly  cracked.  That  would  be  the  thing  we 
might  expect  with  strength.  But  when  the  hands 
grow  gentle,  and  the  might  dies  out,  and  the 
strength  is  only  a  prophecy  and  not  a  potency, 
oh,  then  are  the  strong  hands  celestial!  “A 
bruised  reed  shall  He  not  break.”  The  hands  that 
squeezed  the  plastic  stars  into  their  present 
shape,  the  hands  that  took  the  masses  of  star  dust 
He  has  sown  in  space  and  glued  them  into  solid 
suns  and  blazing  stars  and  massive  world’s 
which  swing  through  the  universe,  those  hands 
are  so  gentle  that  when  He  puts  thumb  and  finger 
on  a  bruised  reed  He  doth  heal  it  and  not  hurt 
it.  And  if  you  think  that  this  lesson  is  of  long 
since,  and  if  you  think  that  this  story  hath  gone 
past  us  like  the  streets  that  swing  past  us  when 
the  locomotive  runs  fretful-footed  as  the  storm, 
you  dream  a  foolish  dream.  There  is  so  much 
might  and  such  vast  strength.  Strength  is  like 
to  grow  pitiless,  and  strength  is  inapt  to  be 
pitiful.  And  there  is  Somebody  who  would  take 
a  bruised  reed  and  not  hurt  it.  Had  you  ever 
a  hurt  hand?  Had  you  ever  a  great  gash  on  the 
hand’s  back,  and  somebody  came  along  and  said, 
“How  are  you  to-day?”  and  reached  for  your 
hand,  and  you  said,  “No,  no.”  Some  people  when 


228 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


they  come  along,  you  hide  your  hand  behind 
your  back.  You  are  skittish. 

They  are  in  the  hay  press  business;  they  re¬ 
duce  your  hand  to  pulp.  And  to  other  people 
when  they  come  along  you  don’t  have  to  say 
your  hand  is  hurt,  and  you  have  a  wound;  for  they 
will  see  it,  and  the  voice  will  say  what  the  eyes 
behold,  and  you  reach  out  the  hand,  and  the 
voice  says,  “It  is  a  bad  wound,”  and  the  strong 
fingers  caress  the  wound,  and  somehow  or  other 
there  seems  to  be  healing  in  the  touch.  Who  is 
that?  That  is  Christ.  If  I  had  a  hurt  hand,  I 
would  stretch  it  to  Christ  if  he  were  here.  I  would 
not  withhold  it.  I  would  proffer  it.  If  I  had  a 
hurt  heart,  I  would  hold  it  out  to  Christ.  If  I 
had  bruised  lips,  I  would  lean  them  for  his  kiss. 
If  I  had  the  broken  purpose,  I  would  say,  “O 
gentleness  grown  great,  O  strength  grown  tender, 
touch  my  weakness  that  it  learn  thy  strength.” 
This  matter  of  adding  to  us  by  subtracting  from 
us;  this  matter  of  teaching  audacity  how  to 
withhold;  this  matter  of  teaching  volubility 
silence;  this  matter  of  laying  the  finger  on  the 
blabbing  lips;  this  matter  of  taking  all  our  out¬ 
rageous  faculties  that  naturally  rise  in  insur¬ 
rections  like  a  revolution  of  people  tired  of  despair, 
taking  them  and  teaching  them  not  only  placid¬ 
ity  but  help,  is  negative.  Whenever  strength  grows 
gentle,  then  strength  is  glorious.  Whenever  might 
grows  tender,  then  is  might  become  worthy  of  God. 


THE  FRIEND  OF  THE  BRUISED  REED  229 


No  man  ever  looked  at  Wendell  Phillips’  face 
and  could  know  him  until  he  had  seen  Wendell 
Phillips  in  his  wife’s  sick-room.  She  was  a  per¬ 
petual  invalid.  And  he  that  met  the  snarling 
crowds,  and  he  that  buffeted  them  and  baffled 
them,  and  he  that  stood  like  a  rock  amidst  the 
storm  for  angers  to  yeast  around,  and  his  voice 
ran  out  like  the  spear’s  thrust — you  didn’t  know 
Wendell  Phillips,  the  man  that  stood  tall  and 
pale  and  fearless  and  even  cruel,  until  you  saw 
him  at  his  house.  How  his  voice  grew  sweet  and 
low  like  a  lover’s  lute  when  his  love  is  close  be¬ 
side  him,  when  his  voice  grew  tender  and  quiet 
like  a  man’s  strong  bass  voice  singing  a  lullaby 
to  his  baby  at  evening.  And  the  man  who  could 
outbrawl  tempests  and  could  be  heard  through 
the  cannon’s  voice,  did  you  ever  hear  him  sing¬ 
ing  his  baby  to  sleep?  I  knew  a  man  once  whose 
voice  was  so  magnificent  that  he  could  outcall 
battle  trumpets,  and  I  used  to  hear  him  some¬ 
times  singing  his  grandbaby  to  sleep,  and  his 
voice  was  sweet  like  the  caress  of  the  south  wind 
to  the  lilies  at  starlight  when  the  stars  have  just 
arisen,  so  soft  and  low,  crooning,  crooning,  croon¬ 
ing.  If  Christ  were  here,  if  that  voice  of  his  that 
waked  the  dead  and  hereafter  will  awaken  all 
the  sleeping  dust  and  bid  it  answer  for  all  its 
deeds  done  in  the  body,  if  that  voice  were  here 
and  your  baby  were  sick  and  sleeping,  that  voice 
would  not  waken  it.  “A  bruised  reed  shall  he 
not  break.”  That  voice  that  makes  death  scared 


230 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


and  makes  hell  to  be  ashamed,  would  quiet  your 
baby  that  was  crying  in  its  dreams  until  it  smiled 
and  slept  with  never  a  cry.  44 A  bruised  reed 
shall  he  not  break.” 

Do  you  know  what  makes  Charles  Kings¬ 
ley  a  man  to  be  relied  on  while  the  ages  go? 
And  do  you  understand  how  people  might  read 
his  poetry  or  might  not,  and  might  read  his 
novels  or  not?  (Though  reading  them  I 
think  always  to  be  helpful  to  the  soul;  but 
you  might  pass  that  by  and  forget  it.)  But 
you  won’t  forget  that  when  he  was  gone  fast 
asleep  beyond  the  waking,  then  his  wife  said 
that  he  was  the  gentlest  gentleman,  she  thought, 
that  ever  lived — the  gentlest  gentleman,  she 
thought,  that  ever  lived.  We  shall  not  forget 
that,  shall  we?  No.  Do  you  know  what  it  is 
that  renders  Julius  Caesar  the  most-cared-for 
character  that  has  come  to  us  from  the  old 
brutal  Roman  days,  and  do  you  know  why 
Cato  is  less  the  man  in  public  feeling  than 
Caesar  of  the  cruel  look,  of  the  hand  that 
knew  no  brooking  and  feared  no  antagonism 
and  broke  down  all  opposition?  Do  you  know 
why  Julius  Caesar,  dead  thousands  of  years, 
still  holds  in  his  hand  the  admiration  of  the 
world?  It  is  this — that  Caesar,  more  than  any 
Roman  we  know,  knew  how  to  love.  And  the 
brute  of  the  Roman  might  grew  gentle  in  him 
sometimes,  and  the  brute  in  him  ceased  to  crush 


THE  FRIEND  OF  THE  BRUISED  REED  231 


down  the  reeds,  and  the  heart  of  him  learned 
sometimes  to  forgive. 

Beloved,  this  hour  look  upon  the  face  of  Him 
who  though  he  had  might  was  never  riotous 
with  it;  though  He  had  force  was  never  hard 
with  it,  whose  hands  were  swift  in  binding  up  the 
broken  reeds.  0  prophet,  and  you  saw  the  face! 
0,  heart  of  mine,  you  also  will  see  the  face. 

Those  bruised  folks — there  are  plenty  of  us — 
we  bruised  folk,  we  are  a  great  company.  We 
bruised  folk,  none  but  God  can  count  us.  When 
people  have  the  hurt  body,  we  can  see  it;  when 
people  have  the  hurt  heart  we  cannot  see  it. 
People  hide  hurt  hearts.  If  you  went  into  a 
house  and  saw  the  woman  suddenly  wiping  the 
tears  away,  what  does  it  mean?  Oh,  she  will 
hide  her  wound.  If  you  went  into  a  business 
office  and  found  the  man  red-eyed  and  the  hands 
suddenly  tucked  into  a  pigeonhole  in  the  office 
drawer,  what  does  it  mean?  It  means  he  has 
been  having  his  heartache  out  with  himself.  The 
presumption  is  that  that  man  will  tell  you  that 
he  has  got  a  touch  of  grippe — his  eyes  are  swollen. 
What  ails  him?  The  bruised  heart.  Have  the 
bruised  folk  got  a  friend?  Oh,  truly.  Has  the 
bruised  will  got  a  friend?  Oh,  truly.  Has  the 
bruised  character  got  a  friend?  Truly.  This 
is  the  Friend  of  bruised  folk.  The  folks  the 
other  people  turn  their  backs  on,  Christ  turns 
his  face  to,  and  he  says,  “Didn’t  you  know  I 
would  come?” 


232 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


In  Isabelle  Morse’s  Talks  in  a  Library ,  in 
which  she  rehearses  the  experiences  she  had 
heard  Laurence  Hutton  have  amongst  his  books, 
there  is  recited  this:  he  had  often  been  asked  to 
write  a  novel  and  had  never  written  one;  but  he 
said  he  had  seen  this  incident,  out  of  which  he 
thought,  had  he  been  a  novelist  born  or  of  divine 
intent,  he  might  have  written  a  strange,  sweet, 
pregnant  story.  One  November  day  at  evening 
at  Florence,  in  Italy,  as  he  came  hurrying  past 
the  baggage  car,  or  what  stands  for  that  with 
us,  he  saw  helpers  taking  out  very  tenderly  a 
package  that  usually  didn’t  go  in  baggage  cars, 
and  he  stood  close,  and  it  was  a  little  boy  so  wan 
and  pale,  so  thin  and  ghastly  as  to  be  very  piti¬ 
ful.  And  the  little  wan  face  turned  and  looked 
around  wistfully  as  thinking  somebody  would  be 
there,  and  nobody  was  there  to  meet  him.  And 
they  set  the  little  wan  face  and  thin  figure  up 
against  the  stony  side  of  the  station  and  gave 
him  two  little  crutches,  and  he  leaned  his  arms 
upon  them  both;  and  there  was  one  leg  that 
was  gone  and  one  shoe  that  was  missing,  and 
below  the  knee  was  naught  but  emptiness.  He 
had  been  at  a  hospital,  and  he  was  freshly  out 
and  was  coming  home;  and  whether  anyone 
came  for  him  Laurence  Hutton  never  knew;  but 
the  boy  leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  station  on 
his  little  crutches  and  looked  so  wistful,  and  no¬ 
body  came.  And  they  left  him  there  alone,  and 
nobody  happened  around  for  him.  And  if  He 


THE  FRIEND  OF  THE  BRUISED  REED  233 


that  will  not  break  a  bruised  reed  had  been  there, 
He  would  have  stayed  with  the  laddie.  There 
are  plenty  of  folk  like  that,  beloved,  not  those 
wounded  at  the  joints,  not  those  with  the  empty 
shoe  nor  with  the  mutilated  arm — they  are 
scant  and  few  and  could  be  numbered — but  the 
people  with  the  mutilated  heart,  and  the  people 
with  the  broken  purpose,  and  the  people  with 
the  shamed  history,  and  the  people  on  whom 
their  fathers  have  turned  their  backs,  and  the 
people  who  are  not  what  they  ought  to  have 
been,  and  the  people  whose  yesterday  is  dam¬ 
aged  and  whose  to-morrow  is  clouded  with  smoke; 
all  of  those  folks  have  a  friend;  and  his  name 
is  Christ.  “A  bruised  reed  he  shall  not  break.” 
Sometimes  I  hear  business  men  say,  4 ‘Yes,  let  a 
fellow  fail  and  business  is  through  with  him.” 
I  don’t  know  about  that.  I  cannot  tell  as  to 
that,  though  I  think  that  statements  concerning 
business  harshness  are  likely  to  be  voluble  slan¬ 
ders,  but  I  don’t  know  about  that;  but  I  know 
that  the  bruised  reed  of  human  life  has  one 
Friend,  one  Friend.  And  I  say  this  morning  that 
if  ever  a  word  were  uttered  in  the  ears  of  human 
life  that  needed  to  be  recollected,  it  is  this:  that 
the  bruised  people  have  a  Friend. 

The  man  with  the  bruised  life,  the  woman 
with  a  bruised  life,  the  people  that  are  ill-homed, 
ill-born,  ill-cradled,  cursed  with  drink,  in  whose 
ears  are  sounded  not  prayers — which  are  the 
sweetest  music  which  ever,  I  think,  tuned 


234 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


viols  of  music  in  human  hearts — but  in  whose 
ears  instead  are  curses  and  brawls  and  angers 
manifold  between  mother  and  father;  people 
that  were  turned  on  the  street  for  comfort,  people 
that  came  to  a  sullen  and  dirty  house  and  never 
dreamed  it  was  a  home,  people  that  were  swept 
out  into  the  world’s  street  damaged,  slum  prod¬ 
ucts;  your  people  reared  in  rich  men’s  houses 
who  have  never  heard  of  God  nor  the  sweet 
solace  of  the  Christ — wherever  God  is  not  taught 
is  slums;  wherever  there  is  no  gentle  affirmation 
of  the  Christ  it  were  better  to  be  born  in  the 
lonely,  frozen  regions  of  the  upper  Sierras,  like 
the  mountain  sheep’s  babies,  than  to  be  reared 
in  godless  habitations,  where  there  is  no  skyline 
and  no  morality.  And  what  about  these  bruised 
folks?  Answer,  “A  bruised  reed  will  he  not 
break.” 

I  hear  a  great  deal  of  talk,  and  I  think  it  wit¬ 
less  talk  mainly,  namely,  not  talk  that  is  meas¬ 
ured  by  what  God  has  said,  talk  about  what 
will  God  do  with  folks  that  haven’t  had  a  chance. 
But  if  you  listen  a  minute  you  would  know, 
wouldn’t  you,  “a  bruised  reed  will  he  not  break.” 
The  damaged  character  he  will  rightly  estimate. 
And  as  to  the  polluted  stream  of  life,  he  will 
take  into  account  the  sources  of  its  pollution. 
God  is  not  exacting  but  just.  Now,  what  else 
can  you  want?  It  is  tenderness — “the  bruised 
reed  will  he  not  break.” 


THE  FRIEND  OF  THE  BRUISED  REED  235 


Who  is  this  Man  who  is  gentle  with  the  bruised 
reed?  Who  is  this  Man  who  is  genteel  with 
despair?  Who  is  this?  Answer,  he  is  the  Judge 
of  all  the  earth.  He  is  the  Judge  with  whom, 
hereafter  and  forever,  we  shall  have  to  do,  and 
the  answer  concerning  him  is,  It  is  Jesus;  and  his 
tenderness  and  justice  are  compacted  together  like 
the  fingers  and  the  palm  of  the  hand,  and  the 
bruised  reed  he  will  be  equitable  toward.  That 
is  enough.  That  is  enough.  I  have  known 
people  who  were  so  ashamed  they  were  shame¬ 
less;  I  have  known  people  so  dragged  in  the  dirt 
— had  dragged  themselves — that  they  cared  only 
for  the  ground;  and  when  everybody  was  ashamed 
of  them  He  of  the  broken  reed  and  of  the  bruised 
reed  would  go  and  pick  them  up  and  would  say, 
“Wouldn’t  you  take  another  chance?”  This  is 
He  who  came  to  the  ruined  reputation  and  dam¬ 
aged  character  and  the  shameless,  brazen  face 
and  said  to  her,  “Wouldn’t  you  like  to  try  again?” 

“Ah!  ah!”  she  sobbed. 

Her  name  was  Mary,  and  her  other  name  was 
Magdalene.  All  of  her  name  together,  though, 
she  never  told  him  for  sobbing. 

He  said,  “Your  name,  what  is  your  name?” 

She  said,  “Mary.” 

“What  else?” 

“Magdalene — Mary  Magdalene.” 

“Oh,”  he  said,  “Mary  Magdalene,  what  about 
another  chance?” 

“A  bruised  reed  he  will  not  break.”  Oh,  you 


236 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


folks,  I  wonder  on  my  heart  whether  you  folk 
and  whether  I  have  learned  about  this  God  of 
the  bruised  people.  I  wonder  whether  we  have 
ever  learned  that  the  ruined  folks  have  found  the 
sweetest  Friend  that  ever  human  life  knew. 
There  are  plenty  of  people  with  bruised  will, 
that  never  had  a  will  of  any  particular  strength, 
or  have  misused  the  one  they  had;  or,  if  they 
had  a  will  of  singular  might,  they  have  abused  it, 
they  have  sapped  its  strength,  they  have  pum- 
meled  it  to  death,  scarred  it  to  death;  they  have 
become  more  wobbly  than  the  salt  sheet  flung 
by  the  wind.  What  of  them?  Answer:  He  of 
the  bruised  reed  is  not  here  to  bruise,  but  mend; 
and  up  and  down  all  the  Jordan  valleys  of  the 
world,  there  is  always  moving  the  gentle  Christ 
— always,  always.  Wherever  tramps  the  crunch¬ 
ing  world,  wherever  stamp  the  cruel,  heartless 
energies  of  the  ground,  wherever  drunkenness  goes 
lewdly  down  along  the  Jordan  and  tramps  the 
pitiful  folk,  wherever  sin  does  its  wicked  worst, 
there,  tramping  and  leaning  over  and  watching 
where  the  reeds  are  overborne,  is  He  that  will 
not  break  a  bruised  reed.  And  He  is  holding 
them  in  his  hand  till  they  are  well  again. 

I  honestly  think,  beloved,  if  this  preacher 
knew  the  art  to  tell  the  story  of  the  bruised  reed, 
it  might  make  your  hearts  tender.  Would  God 
he  knew  it,  as  he  knows  it  not,  but  there  is,  any¬ 
how,  some  Friend,  for  the  bruised  people,  some 
Friend  for  the  bruised  reputation.  What  about 


THE  FRIEND  OF  THE  BRUISED  REED  237 


the  people  that  used  to  be  known  and  cared  for, 
and  now  by  accident  or  weakness,  or  both,  or 
worse  even  than  either,  have  shamed  their  yes¬ 
terday,  so  that  now  they  go  out  and  look  at  the 
world  passing  by,  and  then  get  far  away?  No, 
no,  no.  Ah,  but  the  Friend  of  the  bruised  reed 
will  help  them  and  not  hurt  them.  Though 
society  will  spurn  them  the  Christ  of  society  will 
spurn  them  not.  Oh,  people,  people,  you  folks 
who  have  the  bruise  in  the  heart,  you  folks 
that  have  the  bruise  on  the  conscience,  you 
folks  that  have  the  bruisfe  in  the  character, 
you  folks  that  have  been  wounded  somehow  or 
other  and  the  wounds  never  healed,  and  nobody 
knows,  only  the  Friend  of  the  bruised  reed — he 
won’t  be  violent  with  you.  The  gentle  Christ 
won’t. 

Once  I  had  a  doctor,  and  I  had  a  hurt,  and 
he  came  and  took  hold  of  me  and  he  jabbed  at 
me,  and  I  said:  “My  sakes,  doctor,  hold  on  a 
minute.  I’m  alive  yet;  ease  up  on  that.  I  can 
talk  back  yet.  When  I  want  a  fellow  to  pull 
me  to  pieces,  I  will  speak  to  him  about  it.” 

“Oh,”  he  said,  “it  won’t  hurt  much.” 

And  he  took  hold  of  me,  and  he  jabbed  me, 
and  he  pulled  me,  till  I  felt  I  was  dead,  or  I 
would  die  in  a  hurry.  I  wouldn’t  want  that  to 
last  all  summer.  And  then  one  time  I  had  a 
doctor,  and  he  took  hold  of  me,  and  he  did  what 
he  did  so  gently  I  thought  he  was  funning 
with  me.  And  when  he  came  again,  I  said,  “Go 


238 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


ahead,  that  was  fun  yesterday.”  Some  perform 
surgeries  with  a  kiss,  and  some  wash  away  your 
hurt  with  a  tear.  Oh,  who  is  it?  It  is  He  of 
the  bruised  reed,  and  his  name  is  Christ.  Would 
God  all  of  us  knew  him ! 


/ 


. 


PRAYER 

Blessed  be  God  Triune,  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Spirit, 
our  Comforter  has  come.  And  there  is  not  space  to  utter 
earth’s  gladness  for  that  coming,  that  heavenly  coming. 
All  of  us  who  have  been  shamed  by  sin,  all  of  us  who  have 
been  hurt  in  battle,  or  on  the  traveled  ways  know  the  need 
of  the  Comforter. 

We  bless  God  we  have  needed  the  Comforter  and  have 
had  him  and  have  him  now.  O  psalm  inaudible,  O  perfume 
sweet  as  lilies  of  resurrection,  O  voice  of  quiet,  O  touch  of 
calm,  O  music  ineffable — the  Comforter  is  come! 

Would  that  all  the  world  would  welcome  his  arrival  and 
be  covered  by  the  quiet  of  his  evening  sky  so  that  to  all 
there  might  come  his  sweet  good  night.  Amen. 


240 


XVI 


THE  COMFORTER 

“But  when  the  Comforter  is  come.” — John  15.  26. 

As  you  noticed,  I  have  clearly  read  you  a 
fragment  of  a  text,  and  I  quit  not  in  the  middle 
but  at  the  commencement  of  it.  And  yet,  if  you 
will  pause,  you  will  notice  that  in  concluding 
this  text  at  its  beginning  there  is  subtle  poetry 
not  to  be  scoffed  at.  For  what  is  so  appropriate 
as  to  stop  “when  the  Comforter  is  come”?  What 
will  follow,  what  mercy  will  stream  up  like  the 
daydawn,  what  springtime  will  flower  out  like 
the  fields  of  June,  nobody  knows,  “When  the 
Comforter  is  come.”  Amen. 

The  fourteenth,  fifteenth,  sixteenth,  and  seven¬ 
teenth  chapters  of  John  command  the  most 
unutterable  atmosphere  that  ever  spilled  down 
on  the  pages  of  a  book.  I  will  set  these  over 
against  any  pages  in  literature  for  the  comfort 
and  the  calm  of  an  amazing  peace.  In  Tenny¬ 
son’s  “Passing  of  Arthur,”  when  Arthur  lies  in 
the  barge,  and  the  queens,  stoled  in  black,  make 
their  wail  for  the  slaughter  of  this  magnanimity 
called  King  Arthur,  King  Arthur,  with  the  life 
blood  dripping  from  his  wound,  talks  about 

the  Island  Valley  of  Avilion  where  falls  not  rain 

1AI 


242 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


or  snow — the  far  off,  the  undiscerned,  the  hoped- 
for,  the  dreamed  of,  the  Valley  of  Avilion.  But 
that  calm  of  that  island  valley  is  not  so  sweet 
nor  deep  as  the  calm  of  this  island  valley  of 
the  Book  of  John. 

I  think  that  Bryant’s  “Green  River”  commands 
an  atmosphere  of  summer  peace  not  often  at¬ 
tained  by  any  poet,  and  yet  the  quiet  swim¬ 
ming  of  that  quiet  water  toward  the  quiet  summer 
sea  is  not  so  still  or  sweet  as  these  chapters  of 
John.  There  is  no  place  my  feet  have  wandered 
amongst  books  or  sweet-hearted  poets,  all  of 
which  seems  so  inexpressibly  calm  and  calming, 
as  these  chapters.  Longfellow  has  atmospheres  of 
great  quiet.  Edmund  Spenser  has  a  house  of 
sleep  where  across  your  charmed  faculties  came 
calm  and  rest.  And  Gray’s  “Elegy  in  a  Country 
Churchyard”  seems  to  drive  the  world  outward 
and  upward  until  you  are  thrilled  with  the 
shadows’  lengthening  of  the  tombstones  upon  the 
graves.  But  not  all  of  them,  in  my  humble 
judgment,  are  qualified  to  construct  this  atmos¬ 
phere  of  calm  such  as  is  in  the  book  of  John. 

I  was  the  other  day  down  at  a  canyon  in  Illinois; 
and  may  chance  you  didn’t  know  that  Illinois 
had  a  canyon:  but  it  has.  And  my  opinion  is 
that  among  New  England  hills  and  mountains 
I  do  not  know  so  calm,  quiet,  and  gracious  a  cut 
in  the  hills  of  God  as  this  canyon  of  Illinois. 
And  the  day  was  bright,  and  my  friend  and  I 
drew  near,  and  a  gateway  into  a  valley  opened. 


THE  COMFORTER 


243 


A  lad  with  a  stout  arm  could  have  flung  a  rock 
from  cliff  to  cliff.  Crude,  naked  sand  cliffs, 
about  a  hundred  feet,  say,  in  altitude.  Not  a 
touch  of  flower  on  all  their  smooth,  unspotted 
ramparts.  On  the  top  of  these  sand  cliffs  grew 
deciduous  trees  with  never  a  leaf  on  them  as 
yet,  standing  waiting  with  wonder  for  the  spring’s 
caress  and  the  kiss  of  the  skies.  On  the  summit 
of  these  rocks  on  either  side  was  a  landscape 
of  winter.  The  chilly  winds  blew  languidly,  it 
is  true,  and  yet  the  chilly  winds  were  blowing. 
But  in  this  canyon,  carpeted  with  greenery, 
spangled  with  flowers,  where  a  stream  ran  down 
in  great  laughter  and  much  song,  where  the 
sunshine  seemed  to  be  put  together  for  a  frame 
where  the  landscape  housed — oh,  it  was  such  a 
day  as  if  all  the  balm  that  hath  light-breathed 
laughter,  breathed  across  a  man’s  spirit.  And 
we  plucked  flowers  there,  my  friend  and  I;  built 
our  bonfire  there,  my  friend  and  I;  watched  the 
slow,  blue  smoke  lift  and  fade  away  to  either 
side  of  the  gray-brown  canyon.  And  the  winds 
of  the  upper  sky  blew  shrewdly  with  a  touch  of 
winter  on  their  breath,  but  in  our  canyon  there 
were  no  winds  a  blowing:  only  the  blue  smoke 
lifted  and  sprayed  out  fan  wise;  and  the  sun¬ 
shine  melted  on  us  like  dew,  and  the  laughter 
of  God  seemed  to  look  in  our  faces  and  our  hearts. 
Ah,  well,  brothers,  sisters,  that  calm  of  sunlight, 
that  shut-in  canyon  has  not  a  rest  as  has  this 
section  of  this  book  of  John  I  speak  to  you  about 


244 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


this  moment,  great  rest,  much  sunshine,  sweet 
peace. 

Now,  I  think  the  dialogue  of  Plato  called  Crito  is 
the  solitary  place  I  know  of  in  literature  the  inci¬ 
dents  and  accidents  of  which  are  to  be  put  along¬ 
side  this  episode,  from  whose  sweet  flowering  I  wish 
to  pluck  this  morning’s  sprig  of  beauty.  As  you 
know,  the  Crito  of  Plato  is  the  highest  surge  of 
the  widest  wave  that  ever  broke  upon  heathen 
shores.  There  is  nothing  whatever  in  all  the 
moods  of  the  ancient  thinking  world  that  climbs 
quite  so  high  as  the  philosophy  of  Socrates  about 
to  die,  as  he  talks  with  his  friends,  Crito,  Xeno¬ 
phon,  Plato,  and  the  rest,  as  the  cup  of  hemlock 
is  on  the  table  by  him,  and  that  wandering  hand 
of  his  reaches  toward  it,  and  he  caresses  the  cup, 
and  with  laughter  that  illumines  his  face  rains 
a  little  of  his  wonder  on  them  like  the  spring¬ 
time  uses  its  winds :  and  he  talked  with  his  friends 
about  the  future  life.  And  then,  did  you  not 
read — and  if  you  have  not  read,  then  read  it — 
it  is  always  good  to  get  a  full-face  view  of  people 
who  are  about  to  die  and  don’t  dodge,  about 
to  go  beyond  and  don’t  look  back  afraid.  But 
the  thing  I  would  have  you  know,  not  by  way 
of  reprehension,  but  by  way  of  observation,  is 
that  in  the  Crito  Socrates  is  yet  not  man  but 
philosopher.  Socrates  was  never  man,  but  always 
philosopher.  And  when  his  wife  came  beating 
at  the  door  to  kiss  him  good-by,  and  weep  a 
little  at  his  cheek,  his  voice  said:  “Send  her  away. 


THE  COMFORTER  245 

Women  make  much  noise  at  such  a  time  as  this. 
Send  her  away.” 

Now,  I  do  not  say  that  Xantippe  was  much 
the  wife  or  one  to  be  lauded,  but  I  do  say  she 
was  as  much  a  wife  as  Socrates  was  a  husband, 
and  to  add  that  this  dull  brutality  is  quite  signifi¬ 
cant  in  Socrates.  And  my  conviction  is  what  I  re¬ 
marked  upon — he  was  a  philosopher  and  not  the 
man.  And  then  note  the  calm,  cold  way  he 
talks  in  his  philosophizings  on  the  other  life; 
and  having  read  it  often,  having  taught  it  to 
many  classes  in  the  Greek  room  in  college,  having 
loved  it  much,  I  still  profess  I  come  away  from 
it  feeling  as  though  I  had  been  on  the  upper 
Alps  where  the  wild  winds  blew  cold  and  shivery, 
and  I  wrapped  my  garments  close  and  said,  “It 
is  winter  here.”  And  if  we  are  to  compare  that 
with  this  passage  from  the  lips  of  Jesus  Christ, 
we  see  how  these  chapters  of  John  are  of  the 
same  import — a  man  about  to  die.  When  Socrates 
was  to  take  the  cup  of  hemlock  and  he  sat  there 
and  reached  out  his  hand  and  drunk  it  down 
and  lay  amongst  his  friends  and  straightened  his 
knees  and  laid  his  arms  and  hands  quiet,  not  a 
sound  in  the  room,  only  a  husky  touch  of  sob 
from  strong  men’s  throats.  And  if  you  remember 
that  Jesus  was  about  to  die  amongst  the  sneer- 
ings,  the  noise  of  hammerings,  of  the  unspeak¬ 
able  hatreds  of  the  throng,  the  callings,  “Crucify 
him!”  the  driving  of  nails  into  his  palms,  the 
dull  and  heavy  thud  of  hammers  that  crushed 


246 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


through  bone  and  flesh,  the  brawling  people,  the 
leaning  of  the  crown  of  thorns,  the  awful  agony 
of  a  man  who  saw  a  multitude  for  whom  he  died 
that  scoffed  at  him,  spurned  him,  and  then  in  spite 
of  that — you  mark  that  this  island  Valley  of 
Avilion  is  close  against  it,  and  this  unutterable 
atmosphere  of  unutterable  calm  is  Christ,  neigh¬ 
borhood  to  Christ’s  cross. 

Then  the  miracle  of  this  place  is  not  that  in 
literature  it  stands  solitary,  though  it  doth,  and 
is  therefore  like  the  other  doings  and  sayings  of 
the  Christ.  But  the  miracle  of  this  incident  was 
a  miracle  of  life.  This  great,  brave  Christ  did  so. 
The  hand  that  soon  was  to  feel  the  piercing  of 
the  nails  is  tenderly  laid  on  pulse  or  shoulder, 
and  the  voice  that  was  soon  to  say,  “Why  hast 
thou  forsaken  me?”  is  saying  such  things  that 
for  sweetness  and  light,  for  moonlight  and  sun¬ 
light  mixed,  are  like  wine  of  holy  hope.  This 
place  hath  not  a  parallel  in  the  life  of  man.  And 
the  thing  I  care  to  have  you  know  is  that  the 
reason  why  it  has  such  strange  and  unapproach¬ 
able  calm  is  that  the  Comforter  is  come.  “The 
Comforter  is  come.”  God,  the  Holy  Spirit,  hath 
arrived.  There  is  plenty  of  perturbation,  but  not 
with  Christ;  he  speaks  for  the  Holy  Ghost.  There 
is  much  surliness,  but  not  with  Christ;  he  speaks 
with  the  voice  of  gladness  and  of  hope;  and  if 
you  will  read  these  chapters,  which  I  pray  you 
do,  by  way  of  sowing  your  heart  to  flowers  once 
more,  you  will  see  that  in  these  chapters  he 


THE  COMFORTER 


247 


talks  about  the  heaven  toward  which  we  haste, 
the  Father’s  rest,  the  Father’s  kiss,  the  Father’s 
peace,  the  Father’s  open  door,  the  Father’s  open 
heart,  the  Father’s  widespread  arms,  the  Father’s 
waiting,  and  the  Father’s  welcome.  He  is  tell¬ 
ing  us  of  heaven.  And  if  you  will  read  these 
chapters  you  will  find  that  he  is  telling  us  that 
the  new  law,  the  new  Decalogue  for  human 
life  is  “Love  one  another.”  And  you  will  find 
that  the  new  dignity  of  human  life  is  enforced 
and  named  when  he  says,  “I  call  you  not  serv¬ 
ants,  but  friends.”  And  you  will  find  that  the 
new  service  of  mankind  that  has  come  is  named 
when  he  says,  “Ye  are  to  be  witnesses  that  have 
been  with  me  from  the  beginning.”  And  you 
will  find  that  Jesus  gives  heritage  of  peace — 
“My  peace  I  give  unto  you.”  And  you  will 
find  that  he  opens  jars  of  wine  of  heaven  and  spills 
gracious  liquor  on  the  thirsty  lips,  and  says, 
“That  your  joy  may  be  full.”  And  would  you 
think,  beloved,  when  you  read  these  chapters, 
that  just  beyond  the  door  of  this  house  there 
waited  the  gnarled  tree  and  there  waited  the 
wicked  spear,  and  there  waited  the  scourge  upon 
the  back,  and  there  waited  the  anguish  and  the 
heartache?  What  makes  all  this  Supper  room 
so  full  of  comfort  and  of  such  unspeakable  peace? 
And  the  answer  still  is  with  unperturbed  fidelity 
of  phrase,  “The  Comforter  is  come.” 

When  the  Comforter  is  come  can  it  be  that 
every  distress  is  broken  by  a  power  that  calms 


248 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


the  things  which  used  to  trouble  us?  Aye,  so 
it  looks.  Can  it  be  that  beyond  us  and  above 
us  there  is  a  power  only  waiting  to  apply  its 
healing  kiss  on  the  heart,  and  in  that  kiss  there 
is  rest?  So  it  seems.  And  it  seems  as  if  the 
power  were  Jesus.  He  has  been  telling  us  about 
the  vine  and  branches.  He  has  been  saying  he 
is  the  vine  and  we  the  branches.  He  has  been 
saying  we  are  but  the  outgrowth  of  him.  He 
has  been  saying  the  reason  we  bear  rich  fruit¬ 
age  is  because  we  are  in  him.  He  is  saying  that 
because  he  is  with  us  and  we  are  with  him,  there¬ 
fore  the  sort  of  life  he  hath  we  have,  and  what 
sort  of  fruit  he  bears  we  bear.  And  there  is  such 
a  calm  on  him.  I  defy  you  to  look  at  the  Jesus 
face,  and  I  defy  you  to  look  at  the  Jesus  words, 
and  not  feel  the  infiltration  of  the  calm  of  sum¬ 
mer  evening,  and  the  evening  stars  lit,  and  the 
shadows  creeping  clean  across  the  world  and  the 
far  uplands  of  the  sky  and  the  great  dome  of 
the  dark;  and  there  is  not  even  a  trivial  wind 
a-blowing,  and  the  day  is  all  quiet,  and  the  flowers 
fall  fast  asleep  as  the  babies  are;  and  the  lambs 
are  in  the  fold;  and  across  the  quiet  world  there 
cometh  only  the  balm  of  quiet  sleep.  Rest  like 
that.  And  it  is  because  the  Comforter  is  come. 
It  is  not  because  there  is  no  distress;  and  it  is 
not  because  there  is  no  shame  with  it;  and  it  is 
not  because  there  is  not  cruel  battle  a-hammer- 
ing  with  its  mailed  hand,  and  knocking  at  its 
door;  and  it  is  not  because  life  is  not  hard,  but 


THE  COMFORTER 


249 


because  into  human  life  there  comes  the  out¬ 
pouring  of  heaven  and  the  Comforter  and  great 
calm. 

And  I  think,  beloved,  that  seeing  life  is  so 
burly  and  tramps  so  hard  upon  our  feet,  and 
calls  so  raspingly  in  our  ears  and  feels  so  fit¬ 
fully  of  our  pulse,  and  counts  our  pulse  beats  and 
rings  them  out  in  exasperating  tones,  and  calls, 
“One  beat,  two  beats,  three  beats,  four  beats, 
five  beats,  six  beats,  seven  beats,  eight  beats, 
nine  beats,  ten  beats,  eleven  beats,  twelve  beats” 
— going  along  the  world  calling,  calling  out  a 
man’s  pulse  beats — therefore  we  need  the  Com¬ 
forter.  And  tramping  along  is  “One  sent  out 
from  God,”  the  messenger  of  Jesus  Christ,  saying 
grace  from  the  Father  and  the  Son:  “Peace  I 
give  unto  you.” 

There  is  a  story  of  the  halcyon.  You  know  it 
well;  that  at  the  center  of  the  tempest  there  is 
calm.  And  whatever  the  truth  may  be  concern¬ 
ing  the  gyrations  of  the  tempest  upon  the  stormy 
land  or  sea,  I  will  answer  for  it  for  God  and  with 
memory  of  my  own  heart’s  experience  that  at 
the  core  of  the  tempests  of  the  world  there  is  a 
spot  of  calm,  and  it  is  where  and  because  the 
Comforter  has  come.  I  speak  this  morning  not  of 
any  dream  of  theology  and  happy  dream  of  wonder 
and  comfort;  I  speak  this  morning  not  concerning 
the  expectation  of  the  soul,  but  the  acquisition  of 
the  soul,  Christ’s  calm,  because  he  hath  given  us 
the  Holy  Spirit. 


250 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Would  you  listen  to  a  preacher’s  suggestion, 
beloved,  when  he  says  some  things  cannot  be 
taught  out?  that  our  arithmetic  is  inapt  to  make 
some  computations?  that  our  logic  is  too  juvenile 
at  its  oldest  to  open  the  doors  of  the  logic  of 
life?  Some  things  have  got  to  be  gotten  at  by 
the  heart.  You  cannot  have  logic  and  reason 
solely  sufficient  leaders  for  the  soul.  I  will  prove 
it  to  you.  Have  I  underestimated  logic?  Do  I 
put  reason  into  the  background?  I  shall  not. 
God  has  put  reason  where  reason  knows  how  to 
do  its  lordly  task?  You  can  figure  out  gravita¬ 
tion.  Newton  did.  You  can  figure  out  the 
weight  of  this  world  by  mathematics.  The 
astronomers  have.  You  can  reason  out  evolu¬ 
tion  by  geology  and  morphology  and  paleontology. 

You  can  do  it  with  those.  Those  things  are 
for  the  adding  together  of  twos  and  twos  and  twos. 
Those  things  are  arrangements  of  the  order  of 
syllogism  and  the  premises  and  the  conclusions. 
Those  things  are  able  to  do  that  and  are  done. 
You  can  by  force  of  sheer  reason  construct  a 
constitution  of  the  United  States.  Brawny  men 
who  had  history  at  their  finger  tips  and  who 
had  in  their  circulation  of  blood  the  love  of 
liberty,  went  by  a  land  of  yesterday  and 
turned  their  faces  westward  and  breathed  in 
long  breaths  of  liberty  on  plain  and  mountain 
climbing  to  the  sky,  drank  in  long,  deep  breaths, 
and  out  of  all  that  they  framed  the  superbest 
political  document  that  ever  set  its  wonder  on 


THE  COMFORTER 


251 


the  pages  of  a  nation’s  history.  You  can  do  that 
with  a  brain.  All  these  brain  dynamical  occa¬ 
sions  are  marvelous. 

But  there  are  some  things  we  cannot  get  at 
with  the  brain.  You  cannot  get  at  sorrow.  You 
cannot  get  at  heartbreak.  You  cannot  get  at 
love.  If  you  try  to  think  those  tilings  out,  you 
will  be  barren  as  spring  when  the  mountain 
streams  are  frozen  dry  as  dust  and  the  mountain 
flowers  fail  on  the  mountain,  and  the  cold  moun¬ 
tain  peak  keeps  its  eternal  vigil  of  winter.  You 
cannot  reason  out  the  love  for  a  little  child.  You 
cannot  reason  out  a  husband’s  love  for  his  wife. 
You  cannot  reason  out  a  woman’s  love  for  her 
husband.  You  cannot  reason  out  a  father’s 
affection  for  his  daughter  or  his  son.  You  cannot 
reason  out  why  a  woman  for  her  baby’s  sake, 
who  lies  snug  on  her  heart,  would  gladly  die  and 
leave  to-morrow  for  the  babe.  What  people  who 
think  they  are  philosophers  may  or  may  not 
know  is  we  have  got  to  get  at  some  things  solely 
by  the  usage  of  the  heart.  You  cannot  reason 
out  the  heartbreak  of  Jesus  on  the  cross.  You 
cannot  reason  out  the  heartache  of  David  over 
Absalom,  his  errant  son.  You  cannot  reason  out 
why  people  when  they  die  and  their  beloveds 
have  gone  before  them,  run  toward  their  death 
like  lovers  toward  their  love.  The  thing  we  are 
to  hold  fast  to  is  that  the  master  moods  of  the 
soul  are  only  to  be  gotten  at  by  the  way  of  the 
heart.  My  judgment  holds  you  cannot  reason 


252 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


the  Trinity  out  or  through.  The  doctrine  of 
Trinity  in  the  present  intellectual  obtuseness  of 
mankind  is  beyond  reason  but  because  it  is  be¬ 
yond  reason  doesn't  affect  it,  and  because  we  have 
been  unable  to  hold  it  in  our  feeble  fingers  doesn’t 
say  it  cannot  be  held.  The  doctrine  of  the  Trinity 

is,  as  you  know  and  I  know,  swung  to  us  from 
the  far-off  skies,  and  God  has  told  it  to  us,  and 
we  could  never  have  found  it  out  and  cannot  now 
reason  it  out.  But  that  is  not  saying  it  is  not 
true.  That  is  not  saying  it  cannot  be  held. 
That  is  not  saying  it  cannot  be  appropriated.  A 
man  can  appropriate  the  sky  so  he  can  breathe 

it,  but  he  cannot  master  the  sky  nor  understand 
it  by  art  of  chemistry.  A  man  can  appropriate 
the  ocean  when  he  swims  into  its  tossing  bil¬ 
lows,  and  it  seems  as  if  he  were  not  the  plaything 
of  the  ocean,  but  that  the  ocean  was  a  hired  man 
of  his.  And  the  doctrine  Christ  has  declared  to 
us  is  so  sublime,  so  solitary,  so  intricate,  so  be¬ 
coming,  so  comfortable  to  the  man’s  heart  that 
loves  God  as  that  if  you  get  it  out  of  the  heart, 
then  you  understand  it.  Nobody  that  never 
had  a  mother  could  know  what  it  was  to  have 
one.  You  could  not  explain  a  mother  to  some 
motherless  boy. 

“Had  you  ever  a  mother?”  said  you. 

“What  is  that?”  he  said. 

“Had  you  never  a  mother?” 

“What  is  a  mother?”  said  the  man. 

“Never  a  mother?” 


THE  COMFORTER 


253 


“I  heard  that  word  never  before,”  he  said. 

Now,  look — what  could  you  do  to  him  to  make 
him  understand  a  mother?  You  could  not  explain 
it  to  him.  You  cannot  make  charts  and  show 
him.  You  cannot  reason  out  to  him  the  philos¬ 
ophy  of  motherhood.  You  cannot  reason  out 
those  things.  But  what  you  could  do  would  be 
to  say,  “Come  over  and  see  my  mother.”  And  he 
would  come  toward  the  door,  and  outside  the 
door  and  at  the  gate,  if  you  had  one,  and  out  on 
the  walk  beyond  the  gate  was  your  mother,  and 
her  arms  went  around  your  neck  and  she  said, 
“Dear  son.”  And  she  kissed  you  thrice  and  was 
not  tired.  And  you  said,  “Mother,  this  is  my 
friend.  He  never  had  a  mother.”  And  your 
mother  looked  at  him  with  such  a  world  of  sorrow 
and  wonder  in  her  look.  “Never  had  a  mother?” 
she  said.  “Poor  boy,  no  mother.”  And  then  do 
you  understand  that  the  motherless  laddie’s 
heart  would  begin  to  ache,  and  the  man’s  eyes 
would  become  a  lake  of  tears,  and  the  man’s 
voice  would  choke.  And  he  would  say:  “This 
is  a  mother.  O,  is  this  a  mother?  Is  this  a 
mother?”  To  see  a  mother  is  beautiful;  to  have 
a  mother — that  is  better.  To  have  her  kiss  on 
your  cheek  and  chin  and  lips.  To  have  her  sit 
beside  you  when  you  are  sick  abed.  To  have  her 
call  to  you  when  she  is  dying.  To  have  her  when 
she  is  near  the  dim  river  say,  “Is  Johnnie  in  at 
night?”  And  she  has  forgotten  all  the  dim 
years  since  this  big  man  was  but  a  lad,  and  she 


254 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


is  groping  where  the  shadows  thicken  and  the 
night  is  dark,  and  the  last  thing  she  thinks  of, 
ere  she  slips  out  into  the  dark  through  whose 
shadows  the  calling  voice  of  the  King  shall  beckon 
her  to  peace,  is,  “Is  laddie  in  at  night?”  The 
last  thing,  what  is  that?  That  is  feeling  your 
way  to  truth.  That  is  hearting  your  way  to 
truth.  Not  thinking  it.  You  cannot  get  that. 
No  syllogism  includes  it.  No  logical  process 
interprets  it.  But  you  can  heart  your  way  to 
motherhood.  And  because  you  must  make  your 
way  with  your  heart  to  your  mother  is  no  reason 
why  you  have  not  made  lordly  march  to  your 
mother. 

Now,  here  is  this  superlative  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity.  My  conviction  is  it  is  the  most  amazing 
conception  that  has  ever  appealed  to  human  un¬ 
derstanding.  You  cannot  reason  it  out.  I  have 
read  those  theological  books  which  have  attempted, 
by  one  method  or  another,  whether  by  logic  or  by 
mathematics,  to  explain  the  Trinity.  But  when  you 
come  to  lift  yourself  to  the  Trinity  you  have  got 
to  get  God,  the  Comforter,  to  come.  When  you  get 
homesick,  then  you  want  God,  the  Father;  and 
when  you  get  helpless  and  sinsick,  you  want  God 
the  Brother  and  Saviour,  which  is  Christ;  and 
when  you  get  comfortless,  you  want  God,  the 
Comforter.  O  beloved,  think  you  not  that  if  we 
come  at  this  great  truth  heartwise  we  would  find 
our  way  to  the  Comforter,  and  the  Comforter 
find  his  way  to  us?  We  saw  God,  the  Father, 


THE  COMFORTER 


255 


at  Sinai  first  amongst  the  bugle  notes  of  that 
mountain  half  in  conflagration  and  all  in  storm. 
And  we  saw  God,  the  Elder  Brother,  at  Calvary 
when  daylight’s  luster  sunk  to  sudden  dark.  And 
we  discovered  the  Comforter  in  the  calm  and 
peace  of  the  island  Valley  of  Avilion  Supper 
room,  where  Jesus,  with  a  voice  that  was  as  calm 
as  comfort  and  as  sweet  as  peace,  said:  “I  will 
send  you  the  Comforter,  so  that  ye  shall  not  be 
comfortless.  And  when  the  Comforter  is  come 
he  shall  tell  you  all  things  concerning  myself.” 
And  in  that  room,  where  not  a  gust  of  wind  blew 
from  the  outer  world,  this  quiet  voice  revealed 
the  third  person  in  the  Trinity.  “The  Com¬ 
forter  is  come.”  And  my  perception  of  the 
truth,  beloved,  is,  therefore,  we  must  come  to  it 
by  the  heart.  When  the  heart  is  lonely  and 
bereft  and  sad,  when  sin  seeks  us  with  solemn 
threat,  when  we  are  fairly  submerged  in  the 
awful  trough  of  the  wicked  world,  and  then  by 
the  help  of  God  we  are  helped  out  by  the  clean 
hand  of  God,  when  our  sins  take  us  and  fairly 
shame  us  till  we  turn  our  faces  from  God  and 
say,  “I  cannot  look  you  in  the  eyes,”  then  the 
Comforter  comes  and  says,  “Peace,  be  still,  be 
still.”  And  we  turn  back  and  look  God  in  the 
eyes  and  say,  “I  love  you.”  That  is  the  doctrine 
of  the  heart,  no  less  majestical,  therefor,  but  the 
more.  This  is  the  doctrine  for  the  uncomforted. 
I  came  this  morning  to  this  house  from  a  funeral. 
One  of  this  congregation  has  gone  out  to  keep  the 


256 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Sabbath  in  God’s  sunny  springtime  land,  and  she 
left  a  little  lad,  a  babe  toddling  about,  and  a 
husband.  And  what  the  woman  said  to  her 
husband  a  little  before  she  died,  not  knowing 
when  she  might  die,  but  feeling  death  soon  might 
come  to  her  I  will  soon  narrate.  Not  so  long  ago, 
I  might  say,  I  baptized  another  little  baby  at  their 
house,  when  the  mother  was  sick  in  bed  of  the  in¬ 
firmity  of  which  she  died.  She  was  about  to  go  out 
to  New  Mexico,  or  Arizona,  or  some  place  where 
the  sunlight  was  a  little  freer  than  it  is  here, 
and  before  she  went  she  wanted  to  see  her  baby 
baptized.  And  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  I  baptized 
the  baby.  And  the  next  day,  after  she  kissed 
the  baby  with  infinite  yearning  such  as  only 
mothers  know — kissed  the  baby  and  held  it  tight 
and  said,  “Good-by,  baby:  Good-by,”  she  went 
out  to  try  and  recover  health  for  the  baby  and 
herself.  And  the  baby  sickened  and  died,  and 
went  on  into  the  land  where  little  children  never 
get  lost.  And  she  came  home  to  find  the  little 
baby  dead,  and  to  bring  the  little  boy  with  her. 
And  so  this  is  what  she  said  to  her  husband  when 
she  knew  that  only  a  little  further  she  would 
walk  into  the  shadow.  “I  never  knew  my  baby 
much,  and  so  I  will  go  on  and  get  acquainted 
with  her;  and  the  baby  and  I  will  wait  for  Mark 
and  you.”  And  so  she  passed  “To  where  beyond 
these  voices  there  is  peace.” 

Now,  you  people  are  wise  in  this  world’s  matters, 
and  you  people  are  men  and  women  of  discretion; 


THE  COMFORTER 


257 


I  ask  you  to  answer  me.  What  it  is  brings  folks 
into  calm  like  that?  What  is  it  when  the  dis¬ 
ruptions  of  life  are  imminent  brings  people  to 
placidity  like  the  placidity  of  the  heart  of  God? 
And  there  is  one  sole  answer  in  heaven  or  out, 
and  the  answer  is,  “The  Comforter  is  come.” 
And  later  or  sooner  all  of  us  shall  have  our  need, 
our  calling,  our  clamors,  our  longing,  our  unsatis¬ 
fiedness  of  heart,  and  then  we  shall  have  to  feel 
our  way  by  the  heart  to  the  Comforter,  and  we 
shall  have  to  learn  by  heart  and  by  the  heart 
the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  of  God,  that  he  is  the 
Father  of  us  in  time  and  in  eternity.  He  is  the 
Brother  of  us  in  all  the  spaces  that  lie  betwixt 
us  and  the  forever.  He  is  the  Comforter. 

There  is  a  picture  painted  by  Sir  John  Millais. 
It  is  called  “Peace.”  It  is  a  wonderful  picture, 
in  my  estimation.  It  is  set  in  a  graveyard  look¬ 
ing  out  across  a  quiet  landscape  toward  a  quiet 
sky.  And  I  have  looked  on  that  picture  and 
have  had  peace.  But  I  say  this  morning  to  this 
company  of  hearts  that  this  is  a  dim  picture, 
ill  wrought  compared  with  this,  that  when  the 
heart  is  sore  distressed  and  weaponless  and  life’s 
turmoil  has  unhanded  us,  and  we  are  altogether 
overborne,  the  heart  appeals  to  God  to  calm  our 
trouble  into  quiet  and  the  Comforter  is  come. 
The  Comforter  is  come.  When  the  Comforter  is 
come,  peace  and  peace  and  peace.  Grace,  mercy, 
and  peace  from  God  the  Father;  and  from  God 
the  Christ,  and  from  God  the  Comforter. 


258  THE  HEALING  SHADOW 

Prayer:  O  God  the  Comforter,  come  to  all 
our  lives  this  morning  and  bring  to  them  the 
unutterable  peace  in  Christ.  Amen. 


PRAYER 

Lord,  hallowed  be  thy  name  for  this  look  at  thyself. 

Thy  witlessness  is  wiser  than  our  witfulness.  There  is 
no  unwisdom  with  God. 

We  pray  thee,  help  us  into  thy  fortress  of  reliance.  Let 
us  with  bravery  make  speed.  We  leave  us  utterly  in  those 
hands  which  do  no  witless  thmgs,  and  in  that  keeping  which 
outvigils  all  the  watching  stars. 

We  feel  so  defended,  so  safeguarded,  so  planned-for  that 
there  is  left  no  room  for  witless  feet,  or  doubt,  or  fear,  or 
anxiety.  He  whose  foolishness  is  wiser  than  men  will  not 
stumble  while  he  carries  us  through  our  dark  into  his  dawn. 
Halleluiah.  Amen. 


260 


XVII 


“THE  FOOLISHNESS  OF  GOD” 

“The  foolishness  of  God  is  wiser  than  men.” — 1  Cor.  1.  25. 

It  would  not  be  wise  for  a  lesser  man  than 
Paul  to  use  this  phrase,  “The  foolishness  of 
God/5  for  it  might  savor  of  thoughtlessness  or 
lack  of  reverence.  We  must  always  be  calm  and 
in  our  greater  moods  when  we  talk  about  God. 
When  we  are  frothy,  light  as  the  drifting  cob¬ 
webs  of  September  noons,  we  must  keep  our 
tongues  off  from  God.  Only  in  the  vaster  moods 
of  our  personality  dare  we  speak  to  the  topic, 
“God.”  And  I  think  Paul  felt  this  because  it 
is  only  once  in  his  lifetime  he  used  it.  Just  once. 
This  is  the  once.  He  felt  that  it  was  a  dangerous 
instrument.  There  are  some  instruments  very 
rare,  very  costly,  very  dangerous,  very  helpful, 
which  may  be  in  use  and  required  for  service 
only  once  in  a  lifetime,  but  when  needed  they 
are  needed  certainly  and  instantly.  And  so  this 
phrase,  “foolishness  of  God,”  used  by  a  big  man 
in  a  big  mood,  for  a  big  matter,  is  justifiable;  and 
we  folks  may  look  at  it,  ponder  it,  give  much 
heed  to  its  information,  and  have  large  fear  of 
its  destination. 


261 


262 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Now,  if  you  were  talking  about  men,  you 
would  not  need  to  hesitate  to  use  the  word  “fool¬ 
ishness/’  Everybody  of  us  is  foolish.  Some 
more  so,  some  persistently,  some  only  occasionally; 
but  foolishness  is  goods  we  all  of  us  have  in 
stock.  Foolishness  to  be  defined  is  lack  of  wis¬ 
dom.  The  lack  of  measuring  up  to  the  largest 
reasonableness — that  is  lack  of  wisdom;  and  it 
may  be  seriously  inferred  with  this  definition  in 
thought  that  all  of  us  are  foolish.  God  must 
have  occasion  to  smile  at  us  a  great  many  times, 
us  foolish  people  that  don’t  know  we  are  foolish. 
People  that  know  they  are  foolish,  that  know  their 
incapacity,  know  they  jumble  words,  know  they 
jumble  thoughts,  know  they  have  scant  access 
to  the  acclivities  of  God,  would  walk  modestly 
and  stoop  a  little  as  they  stand.  God  never 
laughs  at  them,  no  matter  how  their  language 
plays  them  tricks  or  how  their  thoughts  become 
vagabonds.  But  when  a  man  is  little  and  doesn’t 
know  it,  when  he  is  priggish  and  struts,  when  he 
thinks  he  is  a  learned  man  and  is  only  a  pedant, 
when  he  thinks  to  inform  the  Almighty,  when 
he  supposes  himself  to  be  God’s  schoolmaster  and 
takes  God  in  schoolmaster  fashion  to  school, 
then  God  must  be  amused  at  him.  You  must 
never  think  it  past  God  to  be  amused.  He  has 
created  us  like  he  is,  and  God  must  be  amused 
at  the  pedantry  of  some  and  the  omnisciency  of 
others.  People  arise  every  now  and  then  who 
conceive  that  until  they  came  nobody  was  in 


“THE  FOOLISHNESS  OF  GOD” 


263 


town.  They  think  that  their  appearance  was 
the  beginning  of  things.  These  people  are  jokes; 
and  God  knows  it.  It  is  a  pity  they  don’t  know 
it.  They  would  be  less  amusing  though  more 
informing. 

A  man  arose  one  time  and  said  he  could  make 
a  better  world  than  God  made.  And  people  said, 
How  would  you  do  it?  Well,  he  said,  I  would 
make  a  full  moon  all  the  month.  Wouldn’t  that 
be  delicious?  A  full  moon  all  the  month!  And 
that  man  wanted  to  tinker  with  the  universe! 
That  dolt  wanted  to  get  hold  of  the  dial  plate 
of  the  universe  of  God  and  make  it  stationary. 
It  is  the  glory  of  God  that  he  puts  the  control 
of  his  larger  matters  beyond  the  foolish,  frivolous 
activities  of  such  eager,  silly  fingers.  Now,  you 
might  have  a  full  moon  all  the  month,  but  the 
poetry  would  be  gone  out  of  the  moonlight.  Any¬ 
body  who  doesn’t  know  that  the  poetry  of  the 
moonlight  is  sweet,  winsome,  wistful,  and  un¬ 
certain,  doesn’t  know  about  poetry.  What  de¬ 
light  it  is  to  watch  for  the  coming  of  the  new 
moon!  Some  people  don’t  watch;  they  watch  to 
see  it  over  the  right  shoulder — that  is  all.  I 
shouldn’t  care  over  which  shoulder  I  saw  the 
new  moon,  so,  please  God,  I  had  the  chance  to 
see  it  in  its  face.  The  sickle  of  silver  shining 
’mid  the  stars  that  glisten  and  vanish  nigh  the 
glowing  coals  of  the  hearth  of  sunset,  shouldn’t 
we  miss  out  of  the  poetry  of  the  sky  that  wonder 
if  that  man  had  always  his  full  moon  in  his 


264 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


heavens?  And  the  moon  grows  and  changes, 
and  the  almanac  makers  have  found  it  out,  and 
all  lovers  have  committed  it  to  heart,  and  every¬ 
body  who  wooes  knows  when  the  moon  rises, 
because  you  have  to  wait  when  you  are  making 
love  so  you  can  walk  home  in  the  moonlight; 
and  the  later  it  comes  up  the  earlier  and  the 
better.  Now,  this  wise  man  that  would  have 
tampered  with  the  moon  wasn’t  a  poet.  Thank 
God,  He  who  made  the  universe  is  the  chiefest 
poet  the  world  has  ever  seen  and  the  chiefest 
poet  that  has  ever  done  poetry — not  written  but 
done  poetry.  And  this  man  couldn’t  have  bet¬ 
tered  this  universe.  He  would  have  simplified 
it,  but  he  would  have  sillified  it  and  made  it 
monotonous  and  prosaic.  Such  a  foolish  man 
he  was! 

Every  now  and  then  a  man  arises  who  says 
that  God  ought  to  administer  the  universe  by 
special  laws  and  not  by  general  laws;  that  for 
every  individual  life  and  for  every  individual 
procedure  and  every  national  movement  God 
ought  to  contrive  special  laws.  And  those  wise¬ 
acres  who  would  so  recontrive  the  universe  would 
have  an  insane  universe.  You  would  never  know 
when  you  fell  whether  you  would  fall  down  or 
up.  It  is  because  gravitation  in  the  universe 
is  fixed  to  drag  downward  that  we  know  if  the 
stars  fall,  they  fall  downward;  and  if  the  rocks 
from  the  mountain  fall,  they  fall  downward;  if 
the  oak  acorns  fall,  they  fall  downward;  and  if 


“THE  FOOLISHNESS  OF  GOD”  265 


a  child  running  along  the  walks  stubs  his  toe, 
he  falls  downward.  It  is  because  of  this  very 
same  general  law  that  we  count  with  infallible 
correctness  a  thousand  eons  in  the  future  that 
such  and  such  things  shall  transpire,  because 
God  is  not  tinkering  with  the  universe.  God  has 
put  his  machinery  in  the  universe  at  work,  and 
only  as  some  great  mood  demands  does  the  Al¬ 
mighty  countermand  his  orders.  He  does  his 
sometime  miracle,  but  lets  life  mainly  run  at 
life’s  own  business.  “A  soul  that  sinneth,  it  shall 
die.”  That  is  a  general  law.  “A  man  that 
drinks  shall  be  drunken.”  That  is  a  general  law. 
God  is  not  interfering  to  change  man’s  destina¬ 
tion.  He  is  not  reshaping  his  general  laws  for 
the  individual  instance,  but  he  puts  over  every¬ 
body  and  under  everybody  the  great  oversky  or 
ground  of  general  law;  and  the  man  that  would 
in  his  wisdom  have  God  administer  by  particu¬ 
larities  would  simply  introduce  jumble  and  jangle 
and  dissolution,  and  the  world  would  be  a  maniac. 

A  man  says  I  could  improve  the  world.  I 
would  have  no  death.  I  would  have  no  grave¬ 
yards,  no  monuments.  I  would  have  people  live 
forever.  And  the  wise  man  who  would  intro¬ 
duce  the  change  of  no  death  in  the  world  unless 
he  could  introduce  the  change  of  no  sin  in  the 
world  and  no  decrepitude  would  be  easy  chief 
among  the  foolish  of  earth.  I  tell  you,  men  and 
women — and  you  know  it  without  my  telling — 
that  if  we  had  no  death,  life  would  be  absolutely 


266 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


pitiful.  The  reason  wags  like  a  cornstalk  wagging 
in  the  wind,  the  finest  faculty  grows  dim  as  when 
we  are  looking  through  smoky  glasses,  the  super¬ 
best  intelligence  wavers  when  it  lifts  its  fitful 
fingers  to  adjust  the  timepiece  on  the  mantel 
of  the  years.  And  you  would  have  a  world 
crammed  with  decrepitude,  crammed  with  unin¬ 
telligence,  crammed  with  foolishness,  crammed 
with  desolation  that  could  not  die.  God  has  let 
death  come  in  to  a  misprized  and  a  miscon- 
clusioned  world  to  tell  there  is  a  door  out  of  it. 
To  tell  the  plain  truth,  people  that  want  to 
tamper  with  the  universe  of  God  are  very  liable 
to  come  under  the  castigation  of  this  phrasing, 
“The  foolishness  of  God  is  wiser  than  men.” 

He  who  framed  this  system,  He  who  fixed  this 
solid  orb,  He  who  hung  the  world  on  nothing, 
He  who  hung  the  stars  in  the  spaces  and  com¬ 
mits  them  to  the  farthest  journey  of  his  universe, 
it  might  be  very  corrective  to  our  thinking  to 
consider  that  He  knows;  and  we  are  not  yet  grown 
old  enough  or  wise  enough  or  strong  enough  to 
give  counsel  to  the  Almighty.  And  it  is  a  happy 
thing  that  this  phrase,  “the  foolishness  of  God,” 
strikes  our  thought  and  lifts  it,  puts  its  com¬ 
pelling  hand  on  the  shoulder  and  makes  us  stand 
stock  still.  “The  foolishness  of  God.”  Is  God 
ever  foolish  like  men  are?  Never.  Is  God  ever 
off  duty?  Never.  Does  God  ever  have  secondary 
moods  of  insight  and  inspiration?  Never.  Is 
God  always  on  the  watch  for  the  morning  hour 


“THE  FOOLISHNESS  OF  GOD” 


267 


and  the  morning  sunrise  moods?  Always.  Does 
God  ever  have  to  think  a  second  time  to  bring 
his  large  administrations  to  pass?  Never.  But 
do  you  not  know  what  the  apostle  means  and  the 
apostle  says,  that  the  things  a  man  would  call 
foolishness  in  God  are  wiser  than  men’s  wisest 
moods? 

Here  is  the  matter  of  fertilization  of  the  earth. 
How  is  it  going  to  be  done?  You  don’t  know. 
You  cannot  guess.  And  God  fertilizes  his  earth 
with  earth  worms.  God  plows  the  ground  where 
the  crops  are  to  root  with  ten  million  million  of 
earth  worms.  Does  God  plow  his  ground  that 
way?  Is  not  there  any  better  way  to  do  it?  Well, 
God’s  foolish  method  is  the  apparently  trivial 
means  by  which  he  achieves  large  purposes. 
They  are  wiser  than  men,  and  the  silly  earth 
worms  that  on  sultry,  rainy  days  crawl  in  the 
springtime  or  the  summer  after  the  gush  of  rain 
in  a  gust  of  wild  summer  torrent,  those  are  God’s 
unhired  plowboys  that  have  to  plow  the  fields 
to  make  the  grass  grow.  And  after  all  these 
centuries  of  these  unpaid  plowmen  science  is 
just  finding  out  that  but  for  them  culture  of  the 
ground  would  cease  and  the  enrichment  of  the 
soil  would  be  a  thing  of  the  past.  This  matter 
of  growing  crops  to  feed  the  world,  this  matter 
of  growing  crops  to  feed  the  herds  that  feed  the 
world,  this  matter  of  the  hay  crop  and  the  corn 
crop,  and  the  cereal  crop;  this  matter  of  fruitage 


268 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


of  the  vineyard  and  the  orchards,  is  it  true  the 
fertility  for  those  fruits  and  the  growing  grain 
and  the  vegetable  garden  are  dependent,  in  the 
economy  of  God,  on  the  foolishness  of  the  earth¬ 
worm  to  plow  the  ground?  So  it  is.  But  God’s 
utter  folly  is  wiser  than  the  wiseness  of  the  wisest 
men. 

Here  is  the  matter  of  cross-fertilization  of 
plants.  Darwin,  who  knew  more  about  such 
things  in  their  sphere  than  any  man  who  ever 
lived,  wrote,  I  think,  his  most  singular  and 
suggestive  volumes  on  the  Cross-fertilization  of 
Plants ,  showing  that  a  plant  cannot  get  fer¬ 
tilized  by  itself;  that  the  pollen  from  one  plant 
must  visit  another  plant  lest  that  plant  be  in¬ 
fertile.  And  so  God  has  hired  the  wind,  and 
God  hires  the  bees,  and  God  hires  the  various 
insects  that  seem  to  have  no  particular  service  in 
the  sky.  God  hires  them,  and  pays  them  in  money 
convenient  to  his  purse;  hires  them  to  fertilize 
all  the  flowers.  Now,  then,  if  there  ever  were  a 
farfetched  way  of  doing  things,  to  you  and  me, 
that  would  seem  the  farfetched  way;  but,  on  the 
other  side,  if  there  ever  were  a  beautiful  way  of 
doing  things,  that  is  the  beautiful  way.  That 
altruism  taught  in  the  teachings  of  Christ — that  is 
the  teaching  here.  Can  one  flower  be  sufficient 
to  itself?  It  cannot.  You  see  the  cornstalk  grow, 
and  the  stalk  runs  high  against  the  sun,  and  the 
tassel  flings  out  pollen  on  the  silk  of  corn,  so  that 
corn  may  be  produced.  Now,  then,  according 


“THE  FOOLISHNESS  OF  GOD” 


269 


to  the  tassel,  as  it  is  with  the  silk,  so  it  shall  be 
what  shall  be  the  corn  crop.  Can  one  part  of 
the  corn  go  on  without  the  other?  No.  God’s 
altruism  happens  in  the  simplicities  and  the 
magnitudes  of  his  universe.  And  you  would 
never  have  thought  that  up.  You  would  have 
every  cornstalk  be  its  own  master  and  its  own 
mistress.  You  would  have  every  flower  dwell 
solitary.  You  would  have  said,  “Let  me  be  my 
own  housekeeper  and  fertilize  my  own  flowers.” 
And  God  sends  the  bumblebee;  and  it  is  just  as 
well  to  let  him  alone  in  action.  That  bumble¬ 
bee  turns  somersaults  in  the  flower  and  gets 
some  of  the  gold  in  the  pollen  of  that  flower 
and  plays  in  it  and  thinks  he  is  having  fun;  and 
the  truth  of  the  business  is  he  is  God’s  hired  man 
to  make  the  next  flower  fertile.  Would  you  ever 
have  dreamed  of  it?  Well,  privately  and  pathet¬ 
ically,  you  would  not  in  millions  of  centuries. 
Why?  You  don’t  know  enough.  That  is  nothing 
against  you.  That  is  something  for  God.  His 
foolishness  is  wiser  than  men.  Do  his  flowers 
bloom?  Yes.  Do  his  colors  abide?  Yes.  Do 
his  fruits  continue  to  grow  and  fall  in  wondrous 
plenty  to  the  ground?  Yes.  And  yet  all  of  them 
are  dependent  on  this  trivial  method  of  con¬ 
tinuance. 

Here  is  the  doctrine  of  evolution,  which,  taken 
at  its  full  value,  means  only  this,  that  God  took 
a  roundabout  way  to  do  things.  If  anybody 


270 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


here  has  schooled  himself  to  think  that  evolution 
is  a  method  by  which  this  earth  can  get  along 
without  God,  I  have  the  honor  to  suggest  to  him 
he  is  a  very  superficial  thinker.  No  man  who 
has  schooled  himself  in  the  evolutionary  hypoth¬ 
esis  and  has  schooled  himself  to  facts  as  science 
has  adduced  them  but  must  know  that  God’s 
necessity  in  the  world,  instead  of  being  diminished 
by  evolution,  is  incredibly  increased.  The  more 
I  read  of  evolution  as  it  is  supposed  to  be,  the 
more  the  miracle  works  through  my  brain.  If 
God  could  have  made  things  stick  to  their  business 
through  unnumbered  centuries,  and  held  every¬ 
thing  to  the  thing  which  was  to  be,  that  is  the 
miracle  of  it.  Does  God  make  the  world  in  a 
minute?  That  would  be  a  joke  to  God.  He  can 
do  those  things.  It  is  no  trouble  for  God.  He 
hath  eternity  in  his  heart  and  in  his  hands.  And 
if  you  had  a  universe  created  by  a  single  fiat 
of  the  Almighty,  that  would  be  simplicity  itself. 
But  if,  on  the  other  side,  you  have  a  universe 
made  by  the  most  prolonged  and  practically 
infinite  mutations  until  at  last  there  came  the 
coronation  of  the  world  of  the  Almighty,  and  the 
morning  stars  set  up  a-singing  because  a  world 
had  brooded  and  produced  a  man,  you  have  got 
not  one  miracle,  but  multitudes  and  multitudes 
of  them. 

It  is  a  foolish  way  to  proceed.  Privately,  I 
don’t  think  the  evolutionist  scientists  know  as 
much  as  they  think  they  do.  They  could  not. 


“THE  FOOLISHNESS  OF  GOD” 


271 


It  would  be  bad  for  them.  It  never  occurs  to 
them  that  there  is  anything  they  don’t  know. 
But  I  think  there  is  something,  I  can’t  remember 
what  it  is,  but  there  is  something  they  really 
don’t  know.  And  if  you  look  at  the  world  thus 
far  advanced  they  say,  “This  is  the  way  it  is, 
and  this  is  the  way  it  is.”  But  the  thing  I  think 
of  it  is  this:  if  God  wanted  to  do  that  thing, 
what  a  foolish  method  he  had!  Ah,  but  if  he  did 
that  way,  still  it  is  according  to  his  plan.  “The 
foolishness  of  God  is  wiser  than  men.”  However 
the  oak  tree  got  here,  here  it  is.  However 
life  sprang  into  this  planet,  here  it  is;  and  it 
catches  the  planet  by  the  throat  and  holds  it 
still  and  says,  “Tell  me  your  secret.”  And  the 
universe  does.  Man  holds  the  universe  of  stars 
by  the  neck  and  says,  “Tell  me  how  you  spin 
and  roll  your  vast  circuits  and  not  dim  nor  die 
nor  lose  your  light.”  And  they  say,  “Let  me 
go.”  And  you  let  them  go,  and  they  go  swinging 
on  in  their  journeys  and  say,  “Gravitation.” 
But  if  God  made  man,  that  amazement  of  genius 
set  to  music,  by  evolution,  we  cannot  deny  it 
was  a  foolish  way  to  produce  a  masterful  con¬ 
clusion. 

There  is  the  matter  of  singing  birds.  Why 
don’t  all  birds  sing  alike?  Well,  you  don’t  know, 
do  you?  and  I  won’t  tell  you.  X  don’t  know. 
Aren’t  you  delighted  that  they  don’t?  That  is 
all.  A  quail  piping  in  the  grain  is  good,  but  a 
few  are  plenty.  A  robin  singing  on  the  roof — 


272 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


O,  it  is  so  sweet! — but  a  few  of  them  will  make 
music  for  a  city  or  a  countryside.  And  God  has 
put  himself  to  the  frivolous  business  of  making 
a  bird’s  throat  and  has  spent  more  care  on  it 
than  Pistrucci  ever  spent  in  carving  a  strangely 
beautiful  stone  into  a  strangely  beautiful  cameo. 
Is  God  in  no  greater  business  than  making  a 
bird’s  voice?  You  think  it  is  small  business  for 
him,  don’t  you?  He  ought  not  to  be  creating 
birds’  throats.  Well,  he  is.  You  don’t  think  he 
ought  to  be  creating  larks?  Well,  God  is.  You 
think  he  ought  to  be  making  stars?  Well,  he  is. 
You  think  he  ought  to  be  lighting  the  dawns? 
Well,  he  is. 

God  is  One  Body  that  can  do  all  sorts  of  things 
at  once  and  never  fumble  one  of  them.  You 
cannot  do  more  than  one  thing  at  once;  and 
sometimes  the  preacher  can’t  do  one;  and  some 
of  you  are  as  bad  as  the  preacher.  You  cannot 
do  two  things  at  once,  and  some  of  you  cannot 
do  one  thing.  When  you  try  to  read  the  book 
and  listen  to  what  some  one  is  saying,  the  book 
or  the  saying  goes  to  pieces.  Sometimes  on  a 
car  I  see  people  reading  a  book  diligently  with 
the  eyes  and  hearing  people’s  conversation  with 
their  ears,  but  the  pages  don’t  turn  very  much, 
I  have  noticed.  God  is  so  big  and  multifarious 
in  his  plans  and  glorious  in  his  executions  that 
he  can  do  all  things  at  once.  And  you  say,  “Are 
you  making  God  sit  down  and  having  every 
bird’s  throat  different  from  another?”  You  say 


“THE  FOOLISHNESS  OF  GOD” 


278 


that  is  a  small  business  for  God.  Yes,  very  small 
business  for  a  small  God,  but  glorious  business 
for  a  big  God.  You  watch  the  birds.  You  see 
the  yellow  bird  on  the  telephone  wires,  you  see 
the  lark  in  the  early  dawn,  you  see  the  black¬ 
bird  jabbering  and  calling  his  confreres  together 
and  saying  “It  is  time  to  move  out;  winter  is 
coming;  snowfall  will  be  here  by  and  by.”  You 
hear  the  jabbering  and  the  music  and  the  carol. 
And  then,  by  and  by,  thousands  and  ten  thou¬ 
sands  of  birds’  voices — and  God  has  got  his 
orchestra.  I  never  see  and  hear  an  orchestra 
that  I  don’t  wonder  about  it,  and  I  wonder  what 
curiously  devised  intelligence  created  lots  of 
those  instruments,  of  such  absurd  shapes  to  try 
and  produce  music.  Sometimes  when  I  have 
a  dear  friend  with  me  at  the  orchestra  I  find  time 
to  whisper  through  the  music,  “What  horn  is 
that?”  There  is  a  horn  I  use  a  great  deal.  I 
know  what  it  is.  But  the  horn  this  fellow  is 
making  music  on?  “So  and  so,”  he  says,  which¬ 
ever  instrument  it  is. 

And  sometimes  it  is  so  strange  and  so  homely 
and  sometimes  so  uncouth.  Now,  God  has  his 
orchestra  made  up  of  many  pieces.  But  God 
takes  time  to  make  his  orchestra  of  birds’  throats 
and  he  takes  time  to  write  their  music  for  them. 
Is  God  so  small  that  he  can  sit  down  and  write 
out  music  for  the  birds  to  sing  so  they  never 
miss  a  note?  And  is  God  put  to  such  childish 
matters  that  he  is  shaping  the  birds’  throats  so 


274 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


that  when  the  voice  leaps  to  it  it  will  leap  to 
music?  O,  beloved,  that  is  the  glory  of  God, 
that  he  has  time  for  every  little  thing.  And  these 
people  who  write  about  the  birds,  do  you  notice 
they  have  taken  lately  to  writing  on  the  page 
a  musical  scale?  “This  is  how  the  bird  sings, 
you  know.”  You  say,  “Here,  listen  to  the  scale.” 
You  could  never  deduce  the  birds’  talk  through 
looking  at  the  book  or  running  the  scale  on  the 
piano.  Never,  never  in  the  world.  The  bird 
wouldn’t  know  it  himself.  Why,  that  is  the 
tune  he  has,  but  it  doesn’t  go  on  a  piano.  Is 
God  doing  little  things  like  that?  Well,  you 
know  that  he  is,  don’t  you?  And  it  is  wiser  than 
men.  Who  invented  the  piano?  I  don’t  know. 
Who  invented  the  organ?  I  don’t  know.  Who 
invented  the  harp?  I  don’t  know.  David  played 
it.  And  the  man  long  ago  told  of  in  the  book 
who  invented  the  harp  and  the  organ,  who  is 
he?  Nobody  knows.  Was  it  a  race  or  a  man? 
No  odds.  But  all  the  instruments  of  music  are 
not  to  compare  with  the  infinite  melody  and  the 
infinite  variety  of  those  little  bird-notes  that  God 
has  taken  pains  with  so  they  will  never  go  wrong. 

There  is  the  matter  of  the  colors  on  the  leaves. 
Pretty  soon  it  will  be  autumn.  Some  of  us  are 
falling  into  “the  sere  and  yellow  leaf”  ourselves, 
but  the  woods  are  doing  it  every  year.  I  am  so 
glad  God  thought  it  out.  If  God  were  not  a 
Poet  Infinite  he  never  could  think  those  things 
out.  Here  are  the  green  leaves,  lovely  enough 


“THE  FOOLISHNESS  OF  GOD” 


275 


to  last  a  thousand  years.  When  a  naked  branch 
sways  in  the  March  air  and  sprangles  out  in  the 
wonder  of  sprightly  green,  isn’t  that  sweet  enough 
to  hang  there  a  banner  forever?  Yes.  But  God 
won’t  let  it,  and  when  the  autumn  comes  and 
goes  the  leaves  die.  Now,  when  it  is  coming 
autumn  you  folks  who  want  to  be  poets  go  out 
into  the  woods,  go  out  where  the  sugar  maple 
sets  its  top  on  fire  and  hangs  out  a  hundred 
banners  colored  as  of  a  wine  drench  on  them, 
go  out  where  the  beech  tree  looks  as  if  filled  with 
fire,  go  and  look  where  the  elm  tree  hangs  its 
sullen  leaves  as  if  about  to  die  of  anger.  Go 
where  the  sycamore  leaves  crinkle  and  scowl. 
Go  where  the  forests  set  their  thousand  fires. 
What  makes  God  do  it?  You  don’t  know.  I 
don’t  know.  But  he  does  it.  His  little  things 
are  beyond  the  miracles  of  men.  And  you  ask 
scientists  why  it  is  and  you  will  get  no  word  from 
them,  I  asked  them  once  myself,  not  that  I 
thought  they  knew,  but  I  wanted  to  hear  them. 
I  wanted  to  see  them  do  it.  They  don’t  know. 
Science  cannot  tell  how  one  seed  differs  from 
another  in  the  science  alembic.  He  cannot  tell 
that.  Cannot  tell  why  one  tree  has  a  leaf  different 
from  another  leaf.  But  God  knows.  I  don’t  need 
to  know.  He  had  leisure  and  he  had  life,  and  he 
wanted  to  do  it;  and  he  was  a  painter  and  he  was 
a  poet.  I  thank  God,  in  a  month  the  woods  will 
be  on  fire,  set  on  fire  of  God.  How  did  he  do  it? 

Brothers,  if  there  were  leisure  or  time  to  go 


276 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


through  the  large  discourse  of  these  seemingly 
frivolous  things  that  God  does,  it  would  fill  the 
heart  with  wonder.  The  foolishness  of  God  is 
wiser  than  men.  God  does  not  need  to  do  big 
things  to  do  the  great  things.  All  he  needs  to 
do  is  to  call  on  the  nether  forces  to  do  a  thing 
that  he  has  thought  out.  When  God  wants  to 
build  a  continent  how  does  he  do  it?  How  could 
he  do  it?  Plenty  of  ways.  He  can  thrust  up  from 
the  bottom  of  the  seas  sheer  granite  out  of  which 
the  roots  of  the  mountains  are  formed.  He  can 
do  that.  If  he  wants  to  build  a  continent,  he 
can  set  a  little  coral  at  work,  building,  building, 
building.  He  can  build  his  continents  so  if  he 
wants  it.  Such  foolish  methods!  Such  incon¬ 
sequential  methods.  But  by  and  by  islands  and 
continents  are  builded  up  and  by  and  by  where 
once  was  only  the  rolling  of  the  mighty  sea  now 
there  are  inhabited  cities.  God  knows  how  to 
do  large  things  by  incompetent  methods. 

And  when  it  comes  into  the  realm  of  religion, 
when  it  comes  into  the  higher  realm  of  human 
destiny,  when  it  comes  to  the  human  soul,  when 
it  comes  to  the  validation  of  man’s  greatest  par¬ 
ticulars,  when  it  comes  to  certifying  human  endur¬ 
ance  through  eternities  and  putting  on  the  stamp 
of  man’s  immortality,  still  God  has  trivialities 
which  shame  man’s  magnificence  and  shame 
man’s  majesty. 

When  God  wanted  to  save  the  world  he  did 


“THE  FOOLISHNESS  OF  GOD”  277 


it  by  a  baby’s  cradle  and  by  a  criminal’s  cross. 
Ah  me,  ah  me,  did  God  think  he  could  save  a 
race  of  grown-ups  by  a  baby’s  cradle  and  by  a 
baby’s  cry  and  by  a  baby’s  dimpled  hands  and  by 
a  baby’s  shrill  voice  and  by  a  baby’s  smile?  Did 
God  think  that  a  baby’s  hands  could  pluck  the 
nails  out  of  the  world’s  hands  and  drag  life  down 
from  a  cross  and  put  virtue  up  and  enthrone 
nobility  and  put  goodness  at  the  summit  of 
heaven?  Could  a  baby’s  hands  do  that?  No, 
they  could  not.  Ah,  you  said,  did  you,  friend, 
“You  will  require  a  great  man  for  that”?  And 
God  said,  “A  baby  can  do  it.”  Are  you  going  to 
save  a  world  from  wickedness  by  a  cross  with 
a  criminal  on  it?  You  are  not.  Hold  a  minute. 
Stop.  He  did.  He  did.  Are  you  going  to  save 
a  world  by  grace?  What  is  that?  Oh,  this, 
what  God  lends  to  the  least  of  us  and  the  largest 
of  us.  Grace  is  what  gets  us  all  inside  the  better 
life.  Grace  is  what  gets  us  all  inside  the  heart 
of  God.  Grace  is  what  builds  us  all  a  house 
erected  in  the  skies.  Grace,  such  a  foolish  method ! 
Just  to  leave  people  here.  Just  to  let  the  ship¬ 
wreck  waters  do  their  worst.  Just  to  let  the 
wild  anguish  of  the  great  deep  rage  on.  Just  to 
let  life’s  despairs  grip  and  crush  and  fall.  Yes. 
Won’t  God  help  us?  I  didn’t  say  he  wouldn’t. 
But  I  said  he  wouldn’t  take  us  out  of  it.  Just 
leave  us  in  the  thick  of  it,  where  the  spears  rain 
and  the  bullets  fly  and  the  lightnings  flame  and 
the  thunders  crash.  And  when  you  have  grace 


278 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


— the  foolish  method  God  has  devised  whereby 
the  weakest  folks  that  ever  drew  breath  are 
stronger  than  giants  maddened  with  new  wine — 
then  folks  are  ready  for  anything. 

There  was  a  girl  I  knew,  a  daughter  of  a 
Methodist  preacher.  I  knew  him  well;  a  dear 
man  he  was,  and  often  came  to  my  study  and 
oiten  in  the  pulpit  sitting  by  me  by  day  or  dark, 
in  the  morning  or  nighttime  service.  And  his 
daughter  was  getting  ready  to  flit  to  where 
sickness  is  no  inhabitant  and  where  sorrow  hath 
not  any  victories.  And  she  languished  along  and 
smilingly  went  out,  wistfully,  but  gladly.  And 
on  the  last  night  of  her  life  this  weak,  weak  girl, 
wasted  by  months  of  slow  and  sullen  encroach¬ 
ment  of  disease,  said  to  her  father:  “Dear  papa, 
go  and  sleep  and  get  some  rest.  I  will  be  happier 
so.  I  am  quite  well  and  I  am  very  glad.  Dear 
papa,  go  and  lie  down  and  take  your  rest.”  And 
he  went  and  lay  down  and  took  his  rest,  and 
when  he  wakened  he  came  in  to  kiss  her;  and  she, 
too,  had  lain  down  and  was  taking  her  rest;  and 
the  lips  he  kissed  were  the  lips  of  a  dead  girl. 
And  the  silly  method,  the  foolish  method,  the 
incompetent  method  of  grace  to  the  lonely  and 
strength  to  the  weak  and  hope  to  the  disappointed 
and  giving  a  lit  lamp  in  a  dark  valley  and  a  fire 
on  a  dark  hearth — that  method  had  been  enough 
to  send  her,  a  weak  girl,  out  into  eternity,  smiling 
and  thinking  about  somebody  else.  “Dear  papa,” 
said  the  dying  girl,  “dear  papa,  you  are  tired. 


“THE  FOOLISHNESS  OF  GOD” 


279 


Go  lie  down  and  rest.  I  shall  feel  happier  so.” 
Grace,  grace.  When  the  waves  are  harsh  and 
frightful,  when  the  hill  is  steep,  when  the  clouds 
are  brooding  and  thundrous,  when  the  wild  surf 
beats  battle  music,  then  God’s  plan  of  giving 
enough  strength  for  the  minute  will  bring  us 
with  great  presence  of  mind  through  the  surges 
into  the  heavenly  hope,  into  the  deathless  morn¬ 
ing.  For  it  must  still  abide,  true  as  truth,  and 
truth  that  outlasts  time  and  lasts  through  eter¬ 
nities,  that  4 ‘the  foolishness  of  God  is  wiser  than 
men.” 

Prayer:  O  God,  we  bless  thee  for  these  large 
matters  thou  hast  projected  upon  our  thought. 
We  do  not  feel  adequate  to  them  yet.  We  bless 
thee  thou  hast  let  us  handle  thy  processes  and 
that  we  are  able  to  get  a  look  on  thee  and  to 
live  near  to  thee.  Bless  all.  May  God’s  trivial 
matters  fascinate  us  above  a  song  sung  of  an 
angel.  We  pray,  for  Christ’s  sake.  Amen. 


PRAYER 


O  Lord,  my  God,  I  am  abased.  Thy  holiness  smites 
me  into  the  dust.  Thy  purity  shames  me  into  blushes  and 
tears,  howbeit  repentant  tears.  My  own  penury  in  good¬ 
ness  is  my  shame.  How  can  I  be  lifted  up?  How  can  I 
lift  up  my  eyes  toward  the  pure  God  who  dwelleth  in  inac¬ 
cessible  light  and  height  of  holiness?  My  best  days  are 
unworthy.  The  black  clouds  sometimes  obscure  my  sky 
but  on  the  clearest  days  films  of  cloud  render  my  sky  a  dis¬ 
tant  haze.  Purity  is  not  in  me  when  I  watch  thee.  “The 
angels  are  not  pure  in  thy  sight,”  so  said  the  seer;  and  so  I 
know  if  angels  are  not  pure  in  the  sight  of  the  holy  God, 
what  am  I,  a  man?  Pity  me,  O  Lord.  How  shall  I  come 
to  thy  holy  hill  and  how  much  less  dwell  in  thy  holy  house? 

Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  Lord. 

Purge  me,  sprinkle  me  with  hyssop  dipped  in  the  pre¬ 
vailing  blood  of  Christ.  That  is  my  solitary  hope,  the  blood 
of  Christ.  May  I  have  that  cleansing  that  in  due  time  I 
may  be  allotted  a  place  among  the  blood-washed  and  re¬ 
deemed,  I  pray  in  Christ.  Amen. 


280 


XVIII 


A  LORD’S  DAY  PASTORAL 

“The  Lord  is  my  shepherd;  I  shall  not  want.” — Psa.  23.  1. 

I  think  to  call  this  sermon  “A  Lord’s  Day 
Pastoral,”  and  the  text  is  this:  “The  Lord  is  my 
shepherd;  I  shall  not  want.” 

There  are  some  things  we  never  can  grow 
tired  of.  One  thing  is  the  shadows  cast  in  quiet 
water;  and  one  thing  is  the  blowing  of  the  spring 
wind’s  breath;  and  one  thing  is  the  companion¬ 
ship  of  those  we  love;  and  one  thing  is  a  love 
story.  I  read  this  week  Crockett’s  The  Standard 
Bearer ,  and,  as  usual  with  him,  the  battle  jostles 
and  life  is  very  strenuous;  but,  likewise,  as  is 
usual  with  him,  life  is  very  tender  and  very 
sweet.  And  I  think  some  of  the  most  pious  of 
pious  reading  is  a  sweet  love  story,  because  it 
always  refreshes  our  best  life  to  know  that  the 
sweetest  things  we  have  ever  been  told  about 
love  are  not  quite  the  truth.  They  are  always 
this  side  the  truth  and  not  that.  We  never 
get  tired  of  a  love  story. 

And  one  of  the  things  we  never  get  tired  of 
is  the  Shepherd  Psalm.  More  people  love  that 

poem  than  any  poem  ever  written.  More  people 

281 


282 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


know  that  poem  than  any  poem  that  was  ever 
written.  Dr.  Maclure  was  not  the  first  man  nor 
the  last  that,  dying,  limped  his  way  through 
the  poem  of  the  Shepherd’s  Psalm.  People  have 
read  that  psalm  or  repeated  it  with  the  rain  of 
many  tears  dashing  in  their  faces.  People  have 
loved  that  poem  and  have  repeated  it  with  the 
wildest  winds  of  trouble  that  ever  blew  blowing 
on  them.  People  have  put  that  poem  under¬ 
neath  their  tired  head  for  a  sleeping  pillow.  Peo¬ 
ple  have  leaned  on  that  poem  for  a  staff  better 
than  alpenstock  when  they  climbed  the  wicked 
winter  mountains.  People  have  had  that  poem 
when  their  way  was  black  and  very  arduous. 
O  hearts,  this  is  God’s  pastoral!  Some  long-since 
poet,  he  of  the  harp  and  the  shepherd’s  voice 
and  the  shining  eyes  and  bounding  steps,  he 
saw  it  and  felt  it,  and  then  did  like  all  poets  do 
— said  the  thing  he  saw  and  felt,  and  that  is  the 
Shepherd  Psalm. 

It  is  very,  very  sweet  and  it  is  very,  very 
tender.  I  don’t  know  anything  that  I  think  is 
as  tender  as  this  Shepherd  Psalm,  except  a  hand 
reaching  out  in  the  dark  of  the  night  when  you 
moan  in  your  bed,  and  the  hand  reaches  out  and 
touches  you.  I  wonder  if  there  is  any  one  in  this 
company  who  at  some  time  or  other  has  not 
had  some  dear  and  unforgetful  hand  reach  out 
in  the  dark  when  you  moaned  a  little  and  touched 
you  and  gave  you  a  pat  or  two  and  said:  “Sick, 
dear?  Sick,  dear?”  And  the  hand  that  touched 


A  LORD’S  DAY  PASTORAL 


283 


you — -I  am  not  asking  where  it  is  now — but  it 
was  so  tender,  wasn’t  it?  So  tender.  And  this 
poem  is  tender  like  that;  and  my  purpose  at  this 
moment  is  to  see  if  that  Shepherd  hand  cannot 
get  hold  of  every  one  in  this  company,  so  that, 
please  God,  we  might  all  be  led  out  into  green 
pastures  and  keep  quiet  beside  the  still  waters. 

I  want  in  the  language  of  the  fields  and  of 
the  spring  to  let  this  poem  of  the  spring  and  of 
the  fields  invade  your  life.  So  many  of  you  are 
from  the  country,  and  so  many  of  you  love  it. 
The  other  night  I  was  speaking  somewhere,  and 
a  Kansas  girl  came  to  me  after  the  meeting  was 
over.  “Oh,”  she  said,  “it  is  so  nice  to  see  some 
one  from  Kansas.”  It  was  nice.  I  liked  it  my¬ 
self.  I  think  she  thought  I  looked  a  little  like 
the  greenery  of  the  prairie.  I  didn’t  mind  it. 
I  loved  it.  And  there  are  times  when  we  all  of 
us  have  the  itch  to  be  out  of  doors.  Say,  beloved, 
who’s  blowing  the  bugles  now?  Why,  the  south 
wind’s  blowing  the  bugles  now.  Who’s  beckon¬ 
ing  with  winsome  fingers  now?  Why,  spring  is 
beckoning  with  winsome  fingers  now.  But  this 
is  a  poem  of  the  springtime.  “The  Lord  is  my 
Shepherd;  I  shall  not  want.”  So,  with  plain 
countryman  speech  at  this  hour,  with  the  tang 
of  the  fields,  I  trust,  and  the  smell  of  growing 
things,  and  the  winsome  call  of  the  bird  that  has 
come  back  to  sing  and  say,  “The  winter  hath 
altogether  vanished,”  I  would  like  to  talk  with 


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you  in  this  Lord’s  Day  pastoral  about  the  Shep¬ 
herd  and  the  sheep. 

The  Shepherd  leads  his  flock  outdoors.  Some¬ 
times  the  sheep  do  not  know  about  it — more’s 
the  pity;  but  the  Shepherd  is  bound  for  the  out 
of  doors.  Out  of  the  inclosure  to  the  great  unin¬ 
closed  fields  out  of  doors.  That  is  where  the 
pasture  is.  That  is  where  the  water  runnels 
sing.  That  is  where  the  daisies  are  abloom. 
That  is  where  the  splendor  of  the  sunshine  washes 
all  the  hills.  That  is  where,  down  the  wide, 
leaning  floor  of  the  far-off  river,  the  swaying 
springtime  grasses  toss  to  bloom  and  beauty. 
Out  of  doors.  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd.  And 
he  is  leading  us  out  of  doors. 

This  perception  of  the  world  and  the  wonder 
of  the  out  of  doors  I  think  is  a  strange  impress 
of  the  hand  of  God.  That’s  where  he  wants 
folks  to  go — out  of  doors.  We  are  so  shut  in.  We 
are  so  cluttered  up.  We  are  so  crowded.  O, 
the  out  of  doors!  But  the  Shepherd  of  the  sheep 
beckons,  and  if  you  will  follow  the  Lord  your 
Shepherd,  you  will  find  that  sometimes,  anyhow, 
he  will  lead  you  out  of  doors. 

On  Tuesday  of  this  week  the  Shepherd  beck¬ 
oned  at  my  door — the  good  and  gracious  Lord 
Shepherd — and  I  went  down  the  country  way, 
for  I  had  seen  in  the  winter  a  stream  that  I 
thought,  when  springtime  came,  would  be  a 
bounty  of  beauty.  And  I  was  not  amiss  in  my 
judgment.  And  I  came  to  where  a  stream  was 


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running  vagabondwise,  and  where  the  wind  was 
blowing  turbulently,  like  March  winds,  and  where 
the  elm  trees  were  springing  out  into  promise  of 
green  and  not  the  achievings  of  it,  and  where 
the  plum  trees  were  stooped  under  their  per¬ 
fume  and  bloom,  and  where  the  green  sward 
was  all  flamed  out  with  dandelions.  And  I 
found  a  bank  against  the  blowing  wind;  and  I 
found  a  bank  all  set  to  violets ;  and  I  made  my  fire 
with  driftwood  and  lay  on  the  smoke  side  of  the 
fire,  so  that  the  smoke  blew  in  my  face.  Ah, 
it  was  so  good  to  get  the  breath  of  forests  that  had 
been  and  were  not  now.  And,  lying  on  the 
green  sward,  elbow  deep  in  violets  and  violets 
flaming  blue  under  my  eye — 0,  God’s  out-of- 
doors!  And  the  winds  sobbed  and  sung,  and 
madrigals,  wafted  out  on  the  winds  and  the 
sky,  flapped  like  eagles;  and  to  the  rim  of 
the  earth  the  trees  swayed  and  stood  upright, 
and  swayed;  and  all  the  wind  gales  called: 
“Spring  cometh!  Spring  cometh!”  And  I  lay 
on  my  bed  of  violets,  with  the  yellow  and 
splendor  of  the  dandelions  just  beyond  and 
the  perfume  of  the  incense  of  the  fire  in  my 
nostrils.  And  the  Good  Shepherd  had  brought 
me  hither.  And  I  made  my  prayer  and  I  sang 
my  psalm.  God  wants  people  out  of  doors.  And 
since  Jesus  spent  so  much  time  out  of  doors  till 
his  face  had  the  touch  of  the  wind  and  the  rain 
on  it,  I  would  think,  beloved,  that  people  who 
love  to  know  him  would  follow  him  into  the 


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out  of  doors  where  God  is  working  the  miracle 
of  the  spring,  where  God’s  fragrances  are  distilled. 

Do  you  know  why  Robert  Browning’s  “Saul” 
grips  so  many  people?  A  good  many  people 
don’t  like  Robert  Browning.  Why?  Because  so 
many  don’t  know  him.  Some  schoolmaster  intro¬ 
duced  him  with  a  ferule  and  a  book.  But  if  you 
will  go  out  with  him,  kick  your  heels  up  with 
him,  and  tumble  around  with  him,  do  the  boy 
act  in  the  woods  with  him,  you  will  love  him. 
But  so  many  people  who  don’t  care  for  anything 
other  of  Browning  love  “Saul.”  Why?  Well, 
one  reason,  I  think,  is  that  it  was  the  wonder 
of  the  out  of  doors.  Robert  Browning  is  not  an 
out-of-doors  poet.  He  is  a  psychic  poet.  He  is 
the  profoundest  digger  into  the  soul  since  Shake¬ 
speare,  and  in  some  regards  he  is  a  profounder 
digger  than  Shakespeare.  But  this  psychological 
poet  in  “Saul”  revels  in  out-of-doors.  Upon  my 
heart,  when  I  read  it  I  see  the  beckoning  hills 
and  I  hear  the  sound  of  water  trickling.  I  hear 
the  calling  of  the  winds.  I  see  the  multitude 
of  lambs  bleating  for  their  mothers.  Out  of 
doors,  O,  my  soul! 

There  is  a  great  patch  of  outdoors  in  front  of 
everybody’s  house,  and  I  not  only  think,  but 
I  know,  that  everybody  owes  it  to  his  religious 
nature  to  know  that  the  God  Shepherd  beckons 
out  of  doors.  Do  you  know  that  the  outdoors 
doesn’t  wait?  To-morrow  the  lilacs  will  be  sput¬ 
tering  out  of  bloom  and  the  day  after  some 


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287 


other  thing  will  be  rushing  into  bloom.  You 
have  got  to  take  nature  while  nature  hastes. 
Nature  won’t  sit  still,  prim  and  puckered,  like 
a  man  having  his  photograph  taken.  It  will 
not.  You  cannot  get  nature  to  sit  down  by  say¬ 
ing,  “Keep  still;  don’t  budge.”  Nature  won’t 
keep  still.  A  man  will  be  still  and  frozen  up  as 
in  a  refrigerator  process,  but  nature  won’t.  You 
must  get  nature  on  the  wing.  O  life,  O  life,  thy 
Shepherd  whose  name  is  God  is  going  out  of 
doors.  Go  out  with  him. 

The  trouble  with  a  good  many  people  who 
go  out  of  doors  is  they  go  out  with  a  botany. 
That  is  bad.  Don’t  do  that  unless  you  are  study¬ 
ing  botany,  and  are  willing  to  take  the  conse¬ 
quences.  Some  people  go  out  of  doors  with  an 
ornithologist.  That  is  enough  to  shake  any¬ 
body’s  faith  in  man  and  bird.  Don’t  do  that. 
Go  out  with  the  bird-ologist.  That’s  better. 
Go  out  and  watch  the  black  crow  talk  back. 
Go  out  and  watch  the  spurt  of  fire  on  the  robin’s 
breast  and  ask  him  who  painted  his  breast.  Go 
out  and  ask  the  bobolink  where  he  learned  to 
spill  his  strange  music  out.  Go  out  and  see  the 
flowers  blooming.  Don’t  ask  them  their  names. 
Some  of  them  don’t  know;  they  are  ignorant 
flowers.  Some  of  them  are  like  girls  getting 
ready  to  be  married — they  don’t  quite  know  the 
name  they  will  get.  Go  out  and  see  things  out 
of  doors.  I  have  seen  some  people  go  out  in  a 


288 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


sheep’s  pasture  and  say,  “What  is  this  sheep’s 
name?”  And  the  sheep  would  bleat  at  them, 
and  it  was  a  becoming  bleat.  It  wasn’t  wasted. 
Things  like  that  ought  to  be  bleated  at.  We 
don’t  so  much  care  about  names  as  things.  The 
Shepherd  leads  his  flock  out  of  doors;  and  he 
will  lead  us  so. 

And  then  the  Shepherd  leads  his  flock  out 
of  the  house,  out  and  up  to  where  there  is  sky. 
Houses,  all  of  them,  have  low-roofed  rooms.  I 
am  not  faulting  it;  I  am  talking  about  it.  Some 
of  them  that  have  very  low  roofs  are  so  cozy  in 
winter.  I  like  them  because  it  reduces  coal  bills 
and  increases  warmth.  Some  of  them  are  very 
high.  I  have  been  in  cathedrals  whose  great 
domes  ran  up  like  to  the  sky;  and  I  have  been 
in  kings’  palaces  lacerated  with  the  years,  yet 
spacious  kings’  palaces;  but  they  were  roofed. 
And  you  had  to  have  a  window  to  look  into  the 
sky.  And  when  the  Good  Shepherd  comes  he 
leads  his  flocks  out  to  the  sky  where  it  is  all 
window,  spacious,  strangely  beautiful.  Go  out 
where  you  can  see  spaces  and  out  where  you 
can  feel  spaces.  And  since  Jesus  was  here,  and 
on  a  morning  mankind  never  can  choose  to 
forget,  walked  up  through  the  heavens  and 
showed  us  the  sky  was  wider  than  we  thought; 
since  then  the  sky  has  grown  so  strangely  wide 
and  winsome  and  wonderful.  That  is  what  we 
are  needing,  to  be  beckoned  up.  We  are  tied 
down  like  tethered  eagles;  we  are  put  into  narrow 


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289 


places  of  vocation  like  poor  canaries  that  are 
put  in  little  houses  down  in  the  bird  store — - 
houses  no  bigger  than  your  two  clinched  fists. 
O,  they  were  meant,  they  were  meant,  to  baffle 
the  winds  with  their  yellow  wings,  and  to  toss 
their  bird  music  into  the  sky.  And  we  are  meant 
to  be  out  where  there  is  room  for  growth,  and 
out  where  there  is  room  for  song,  and  out  where 
the  eternal  wonder  of  the  universe  can  come  and 
kiss  us  on  the  lips,  and  have  no  door  bell  for  the 
ringing  and  no  low-roofed  room  to  make  souls 
stoop  for  the  coming  in. 

God,  I  take  it,  is  always  shepherding  us  to 
take  us  out,  out  into  the  spaciousness  of  life,  out 
till  we  feel  the  world  is  a  little  space,  till  we 
feel  we  can  ram  our  arm  through  the  breadth  of 
the  world  and  grasp  the  world  and  wear  it  on  the 
arm  as  a  shield.  That  is  how  it  comes  to  pass 
that  men  grow  great,  when  they  come  to  feel 
there  is  no  locality;  that  we  do  not  live  at  Chi¬ 
cago,  but  everywhere  on  the  earth.  Men  and 
women,  if  you  never  felt  life’s  cramp,  I  miss 
my  guess !  If  you  never  felt  that  life  was  cramped, 
or  you  had  been  thrust  out  from  spaciousness 
into  lack  of  space.  O  God,  call  us,  beckon  us 
out  where  there  is  room  and  high  sky  and  night 
sky  and  day  sky  and  sky  eternal. 

Then  a  curious  thing,  I  think,  about  the  Shep¬ 
herd  of  the  sheep  is  that  the  Shepherd  lets  his 
sheep  out  into  the  storm.  I  suppose  that  has 


290 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


caused  more  thought  than  any  other  single  fact 
of  life — this,  that  we  are  led  out  into  the  storm. 
I  suppose  that  has  caused  more  exclamatory  and 
deeper  grieving  in  good  men’s  lives  and  good 
women’s  lives  than  any  single  thing  in  Chris¬ 
tianity.  Perchance  they  feel  that  by  how  much 
the  Lord  was  their  Shepherd  by  so  much  should 
they  be  led  away  from  storms.  But  the  Shep¬ 
herd  leads  his  sheep  out  into  storms. 

I  was  one  time  in  a  room  a  hundred  feet  above 
the  earth,  and  a  chimney  swift  had  found  his 
foolish  way  into  the  room;  and  from  scratchings 
on  the  window  it  was  very  apparent  that  all 
the  day,  and  maybe  days,  he  had  tried  to  find 
his  way  through  the  window  into  the  sky.  And 
I  chanced  to  come  there  late  one  night  and  found 
the  swift  baffled  with  the  light  I  held  in  my 
hand;  and  my  heart  was  so  sore  with  pity  for 
the  baffled  bird  I  climbed  and  caught  the  trem¬ 
bling  bit  of  bird  and  feather  in  my  hand  and 
opened  the  window  and  put  him  out  into  the 
out-of-doors  for  which  he  was  meant  and  where 
his  life  was.  Out  from  death  I  put  him  into  life. 
But  he  turned  his  face  my  way  and  saw  the 
flicker  of  the  light  and  flew  back  in.  And  so 
he  did  time  and  time  again,  not  knowing  that 
the  sky  was  his  place,  that  the  sky  was  about 
him,  and  not  the  peril  a  hundred  feet  below. 
He  had  wings,  but  didn’t  try  them.  But  at  last 
I  took  the  tremulous  bird  and  flung  him  out 
into  the  sky,  black  and  starless,  and  unlit  by 


A  LORD’S  DAY  PASTORAL 


291 


any  lamp,  and  closed  the  window.  And  did 
you  not  observe  that  by  my  throwing  him  out 
into  the  sky  I  did  not  hurt  him  but  saved  him? 
God  must  do  that  with  us.  Sometimes  we  think 
our  safety  is  our  home.  What  I  am  saying  to 
the  praise  of  God  is  that  sometimes  he  casts 
us  out  into  jeopardy;  because  God  is  more  con¬ 
cerned  about  our  strength  and  our  service  and 
our  enlarged  life  than  he  is  that  we  have  no 
peril. 

O  heart,  how  you  ache!  Did  God  send  the 
ache?  No.  But  God  let  you  out  where  the 
ache  was.  There  are  worse  troubles  than  heart¬ 
aches.  Say,  heart,  have  you  been  scuffed  by 
the  storm?  Has  the  rose  you  held  withered 
while  you  held  it?  Has  your  heart’s  blood  spurted 
out,  so  deep  was  the  wound  in  your  heart?  And 
sometimes  you  gasped  for  breath  and  blood  to¬ 
gether  and  cry,  “If  God  help  me  not,  I  die!” 
What  does  the  Shepherd  do?  Lead  you  out 
where  the  storms  are.  And  I  have  seen,  as  some 
of  you  may  have  seen,  on  the  Scotch  hills,  when 
the  rain  was  drizzling  hard  and  the  fogs  had 
wrapped  themselves  around  the  mountains,  I 
have  seen  the  shepherds  standing  amidst  the 
drench  of  the  rain,  not  taking  the  flock  out  of 
the  storm,  but  staying  with  the  flock  in  the 
storm. 

The  Shepherd  takes  his  flock  out  where  the 
winds  may  be  hard  and  the  fury  may  be  very 
pitiless,  but  that  is  where  we  are  meant  to  be. 


292 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


And,  beloved,  if  you  think  that  God  is  trying 
the  conservatory  plan  on  your  heart,  you  mis¬ 
understand  him.  In  the  conservatory  they  shut 
out  the  storm  and  baffle  the  winds,  and  what 
they  grow  is  flowers  that  the  first  spring  breath 
leaning  to  kiss  them  would  break.  But  God 
leads  his  flock  out  where  the  winds  are  wildest 
and  the  storms  are  hardest  and  the  fury  seems 
like  the  fury  of  destruction.  And  God  is  con¬ 
cerned  not  that  we  get  on  easily,  but  that  we  get 
on  to  something.  It  is  better,  men  and  women, 
I  will  tell  you,  to  get  out  where  the  tempests 
blow  worst  and  to  feel  that  you  are  meant  for 
this,  and  that  you  can  meet  it,  nor  it  need  to 
master  you — better  than  to  be  sheltered  about 
by  eternal  calm.  So  that  the  Shepherd’s  method 
is  to  lead  us  out  into  the  storm  and  put  a  calm 
in  us  and  not  us  in  the  calm.  And  when  I  have 
thought  of  that,  as  I  have  many,  many  times, 
particularly  when  I  have  seen  scars  on  many 
faces,  when  I  have  fairly  seen  the  pincers  of  pain 
plucking  at  the  face,  when  I  have  seen  people 
put  on  the  rack  when  there  was  no  inquisitor  at 
home,  then  I  have  been  fairly  amazed  at  it.  Then 
I  have  seen  that  God  was  not  keeping  us  at  home; 
but  is  keeping  us  in  the  storm  and  in  the  calm. 
Out  in  the  storm — O  Shepherd,  fetch  us  home! 
O  Shepherd,  the  wind  blows  bleak,  fetch  us 
home!  O  Shepherd,  it  is  so  tempestuous  here, 
fetch  us  home!  And  the  Shepherd  smiles  and 
fronts  the  storm  and  says,  “The  storm  is  good.” 


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293 


And  I  think  I  may  not  be  speaking  at  random 
to  this  presence  when  I  say  a  good  many  of  you 
have  been  out  in  the  tempests;  and  you  have 
been  troubled  by  them.  The  tempest  of  calamity 
took  your  fortune  and  cut  it  off  as  with  a  sword; 
and  you  have  bare  subsistence  now.  Never 
mind.  Some  of  you  have  had  children,  but  you 
are  childless  now.  Some  of  you  have  troubles 
which  you  cannot  name,  except  with  the  tragic 
poet’s  voice.  Never  mind.  You  had  them,  did 
you?  Yes.  You  were  not  put  here  to  be  shielded 
from  them.  No,  not  that.  You  were  put  here 
to  show  that  you  were  not  meant  to  hide  from 
the  storm,  but  to  abide  the  storm;  and  out  of 
the  storm  cometh  peace. 

Then  the  Shepherd  goes  out  with  his  flock  and 
stays  with  them.  It  is  never  hard  to  be  any¬ 
where  when  the  Shepherd  is  along.  You  read, 
did  you,  this  week  in  the  paper  of  the  woman 
shut  in  some  high  floor;  and  the  fire  shut  her 
away  from  the  staircase  with  the  flame;  and, 
the  baby  on  her  arm  and  love  in  her  heart,  she 
came  down  the  fire  escape,  mother  and  baby? 
I  wish  I  knew  the  woman.  It  would  be  good 
to  look  in  her  face.  When  women  do  these 
great,  sweet  woman  things  that  make  God  sur¬ 
prised  I  always  like  to  see  their  faces,  because 
it  is  like  looking  at  a  page  of  God’s  book.  When 
love  doesn’t  know  enough  to  stop,  when  love 
doesn’t  know  its  sacrifice,  isn’t  that  beautiful? 
Around  the  baby  the  arm  and  down  the  long, 


294 


THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


dreary,  perilous  descent!  O  brothers  and  sisters, 
what  I  wondered  at  was  whether  the  baby  was 
asleep,  or  whether  the  baby  knew,  or  whether 
the  baby  cared.  Had  not  the  babe  the  mother, 
and  the  arm,  and  the  heart?  Safety.  What 
was  the  odds  where  they  were  if  the  mother 
were  there?  And  where  the  mother  was  there 
was  great  safety.  And  if  the  Shepherd  is  around, 
what  odds?  What  odds?  The  trouble  with  us 
is  danger  is  appalling,  and  we  are  shepherdless. 
But  out  in  the  appalling  danger  with  the  Shep¬ 
herd  it  makes  no  difference  about  the  danger. 

Sometimes  I  have  been  in  my  boat  on  boil¬ 
ing  waters;  and  the  fury  of  the  storm  was  piti¬ 
less,  tempestuous;  and  between  a  watery  grave 
and  me  was  only  a  film  of  a  cypress  wood  board, 
that  only:  but  that  was  safety.  And  when  the 
storm  played  pitch  battles  with  me  I  had  fun. 
And  when  the  waves  thrust  out  their  spears  then 
I  had  fun.  And  the  tumbled  waters  jumbled 
their  reaching  waves  together.  Then  I  had  fun. 
Because  the  boat  was  my  safety.  Ah,  people 
does  it  make  much  difference,  therefore,  how 
bitter  the  day  if  you  have  the  Shepherd?  I 
profess,  and  I  read  the  story  partially  out  of 
my  own  heart  and  partially  out  of  yours,  that 
it  is  not  any  real  difference  about  the  weather; 
and  the  only  real  difference  is  about  the  Shep¬ 
herd.  The  Shepherd!  Did  the  lamb  care  that 
night  how  black  the  night  was  when  the  Shep¬ 
herd  had  it  on  his  heart?  Oh,  no.  Did  the 


A  LORD’S  DAY  PASTORAL 


295 


lamb  care  how  long  the  journey  was?  It  did  not. 
It  slept  upon  the  Shepherd’s  heart.  And  I  take 
it  that  is  what  folks  want,  the  Shepherd.  How 
long  will  it  be  through  the  wearying  journey? 
I  don’t  know.  How  long  will  it  be  till  we  have 
rest?  I  do  not  know.  But,  beloved,  I  will  promise 
you  one  thing  as  a  minister  of  God,  who  has 
provoked  an  answer  from  the  lips  of  Christ, 
and  who  has  seen  the  baffled  fury  of  many  and 
many  a  storm — when  Christ  is  there  the  con¬ 
clusion  will  be  peace.  About  us  the  Shepherd. 
That  is  enough. 

And  the  Shepherd  leads  the  sheep  out  to  where 
they  totally  rely  on  him.  You  thought  the  world 
was  settled  down,  did  you?  And  wouldn’t  act 
up  any  more,  didn’t  you?  You  thought  the 
world  had  quit  its  peevish  childhood  and  its 
frolics.  You  thought  it,  didn’t  you?  And  then 
the  world  just  did  a  thing  to  show  you.  Yes, 
it  did.  The  earthquake  came.  Brothers  and 
sisters,  the  Good  Shepherd  owns  the  pasture 
green,  owns  the  south  wind’s  breath,  owns  the 
north  wind’s  breath,  owns  the  pasture  field, 
owns  the  sky.  All  is  in  his  hands.  We  cannot 
live  without  him.  He  is  our  Benefactor.  And 
that  is  what  I  think  is  a  high  crime  and  mis¬ 
demeanor  of  a  great  many  of  us — we  think  that 
because  we  work  for  our  board  that  we  make 
the  board.  We  say:  “I  provide  for  myself.”  “I 
insured  myself.”  “I  have  provided  a  competency 


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for  my  family/’  “I  have  built  a  house.”  “I 
have  constructed  a  business.”  “I  have  gotten 
on  pretty  well.  It  is  so  many  years  since  I  came 
to  this  town,  and  now  I  am  pleasantly  situated. 
I — ”  But  hadn’t  you  the  Shepherd?  What 
was  he  doing?  Didn’t  he  lend  you  strength? 
Didn’t  he  give  you  a  chance?  Didn’t  he  give  you 
two  hands  with  two  hands’  might?  Didn’t  he 
give  you  endurance?  Didn’t  he  give  you  aspira¬ 
tion  and  a  touch  of  genius?  Didn’t  he  give  you 
forbearance?  Why,  if  God  had  snuffed  out  the 
sun  you  couldn’t  have  been  an  artist.  Why,  if 
God  had  struck  down  the  mountains,  you  couldn’t 
have  been  engineers.  Why,  you  couldn’t  do 
anything  without  him.  The  Shepherd.  O  Shep¬ 
herd  of  the  pasture,  lead  us  to  God! 

And  then  when  the  day  is  over  the  Shepherd 
leads  the  sheep  back  home.  I  am  a  man  who 
lives  out  where  people  live,  thank  God.  I  am 
not  shut  in.  I  am  not  a  hothouse  flower.  I 
belong  out  where  everybody  is,  good  folks  and 
bad  folks,  church  members  and  nonchurch  mem¬ 
bers,  smart  and  unsmart,  and  I  like  them  all. 
I  don’t  know  which  I  like  better,  the  smart  or 
unsmart.  The  people  who  are  smart  make  you 
weary  sometimes,  and  the  people  who  are  un¬ 
smart  don’t.  I  like  them  all.  Out  where  people 
are  prosperous  and  have  lots  of  money,  and  out 
where  people  are  not  prosperous  and  haven’t 
any  money,  and  both  are  good.  It  is  nice  to  be 
poor;  and  I  suppose  it  is  nice  to  be  rich.  But 


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I  am  out  where  both  are.  And  that  is  what  seems 
to  be  bountifully  good — when  it  gets  toward 
night  and  the  Shepherd  leads  his  flock  toward 
home.  Home,  after  the  day’s  work.  Men  going 
home,  women  going  home,  children  going  home. 
And  if  you  will  speak  of  death,  the  difference 
between  a  man  dying  without  Christ  and  with 
Christ  is  this,  that  the  man  without  Christ  is 
going  he  does  not  know  where, ,  but  he  is  not 
going  home.  He  is  out  toward  a  land  of 
strangers;  and  every  whither  he  walks  is  all 
strange.  And  the  man  that  has  Christ,  at  even¬ 
tide  the  Shepherd  leads  him  home.  And  I 
think,  I  think,  that  some  of  these  times  you 
and  I  shall  journey,  whither  going?  And  he 
will  say,  “Home.” 

Whose  face  is  at  the  door?  Father’s.  Home. 
And  the  father  at  the  door  of  heaven  smiling  and 
beckoning  and  calling  “Hurry  home.”  Whose 
face  is  at  the  door?  Mother’s,  saying,  “Come, 
hurry  for  the  kiss  that  awaits  you.”  Home. 
Whose  face  at  the  door?  His,  the  Shepherd’s. 
Home.  And  there  is  the  firelight;  and  there  is 
the  home  light;  and  there  is  rest;  and  there  is 
help;  and  there  is  eternal  calm.  Getting  home. 
And  I  think  I  need  not  adventure  this,  that  there 
is  nothing  so  sweet  in  all  the  poems  of  Grecian 
mythology  as  this,  that  Christ’s  folks  dying  are 
only  Christ’s  folks  taking  a  short-cut  to  get  home. 
Getting  home. 

And  the  Shepherd’s  face.  God  is  the  Shepherd. 


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THE  HEALING  SHADOW 


Home.  And  every  bleating  lamb  and  every  sheep 
within  the  pasture  bleating,  and  the  Shepherd  is 
calling:  “Evening,  and  home,  evening,  and  home.” 
And  they  are  following,  all  the  sheep.  Evening, 
and  home;  and  the  fold  and  the  Shepherd,  and 
one  fold  and  one  Shepherd;  and  the  doors  are 
shut  and  the  stars  are  lit  and  the  night  is  come 
and  we  are  come  home. 

I  went  at  early  day  to  bid  a  man  good-by  on 
his  journey  to  the  infinite.  I  had  known  him 
in  other  days  in  another  city.  He  lay  there  very 
still.  I  didn’t  go  to  deliver  a  panegyric  or  fare¬ 
well.  I  only  went  to  say  as  I  wiped  the  tears 
from  his  daughter’s  face  with  my  hand;  and  the 
tears  of  his  wife’s  face  fell  on  the  back  of  my 
hand  as  I  held  her  hand  in  consolation,  I  went 
to  say:  “He  is  on  his  journey,  he  has  gotten 
home.  On  his  journey  home.”  Heart,  this  is 
“A  Lord’s  day  pastoral,”  “The  Lord  is  my  Shep¬ 
herd;  I  cannot  want,  I  shall  not  want — forever.” 

Prayer:  O  Lord,  we  thank  thee  for  this  tender 
saying  of  thine.  Make  it  as  dew  to  the  flowers, 
so  to  our  hearts,  for  Christ’s  sake.  Amen. 


A  PRAYER  LEARNT  FROM  FLOWERS  AND  STARS 


Lord  God  of  our  life,  we  would  fain  have  our  devotion 
to  thee  as  effortless  as  the  lift  of  a  sea  wave  and  as  passion¬ 
ate  as  the  flight  of  stars. 

If  we  were  our  best  selves  it  would  be  so,  always  so.  We 
long  for  that  sublime  naturalness  in  our  faith  and  love  to 
God.  We  are  shamed  when  it  is  otherwise.  Shall  a  bubble 
neglect  or  deny  the  sea?  Shall  a  voice  strike  at  the  air? 
Shall  a  dove  make  difficult  with  its  wings  or  decry  them  or 
forget  them?  And  art  not  thou  more  to  us  in  sweetness, 
wholeness,  necessity  than  all  besides?  We  are  bubbles  but 
shall  not  break,  seeing  we  are  of  thee,  thou  Infinite  Ocean. 
Our  wings  need  not  weary,  being  of  thee  and  bearing  us 
toward  thee. 

Hold  us,  O  Mightiest  Help,  that  we  take  thee  as  the  lily 
the  wave  on  which  it  blooms.  We  must  gather  white  and 
gold  from  thee  as  the  lily  from  the  sun,  and  because  it  effort¬ 
lessly  does  this,  it  flowers  out  a  wonder  and  a  joy. 

Direct  our  flowering  out  of  life  that  it  be  as  effortless  as 
the  falling  of  the  dark  and  as  fragrant  as  the  incense  at  the 
altar  of  God,  we  pray  in  Christ  our  Lord.  Amen. 


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